


The Blight

by dinosaurdragon



Series: The Way of the Story [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (sort of anyway), F/F, F/M, M/M, OC feature, OCs Everywhere in a sense, POV First Person, Self-Insert, Shapeshifting, Social Anxiety, Trans Character, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:59:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 108,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4017229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaurdragon/pseuds/dinosaurdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Vir'era. Probably. I was not born in Thedas. I don't know how I got here, but I can't go back now. I can make things here the best they can be. Or, at least, I can try.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Vir'era wasn't supposed to be in Thedas, but that's the only thing he's really sure of. The Eluvian brought him here when Tamlen touched it, and he knows what could happen here. Mostly. There wasn't supposed to be more than one Warden, though, and he's with six. Plus himself. That difference might come to mean more than he expected.</p>
<p>First, though, if he wants to help Thedas, he has to survive the Blight.</p>
<p>Featuring: Angry Darrien Tabris, Curious Neria Surana, Standoffish Daylen Amell, Sly Capella Cousland, Clever Castor Cousland, and Protective Theron Mahariel, as well as three dogs, probably the entire cast of Origins, occasional bouts of inconsistency with the game, and an ambitious author aiming to write it all.</p>
<p>Edit! Added as of Chapter 12: Commanding Anya Aeducan and Quiet Faren Brosca!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one here we go

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this is completely just self-indulgent bullshit. originally i wrote this to be just seen by myself and a friend, but i have put way too much effort into this to not share it.
> 
> this is first-person POV from a character who started out as a random shitty half-self-insert OC. i like to think he's developed beyond that mostly now but he's still a "Real World Person Drops into Thedas With Full Game Knowledge" trope and i don't give a fuck. his knowledge is more or less limited to my own knowledge of the game, but i'm a little obsessed and know a lot of it. just saying.
> 
> chapter titles are random bullshit and rarely have anything to do with chapter plot. not sorry.

“She is not of our clan, but I shall help her. Thank you for bringing them to me.”

Lights like water, pressing close and drowning me, turning dark and swallowing me.

“I think Theron is waking up! The girl’s still asleep, though…”

Icy burns consuming, each breath more painful than the last, until velveteen warmth caressed me.

“Are you alright, da’len? Do you remember anything?”

Velvet grew to fur, to hides, to leather, and at last the dark-light slunk away, but did not leave.

“I… where is Tamlen?”

When I opened my eyes, it was hard to focus. I could not remember who I was, or where I was from. I whimpered, so soft a sound it nearly was missed.

“She’s awake!” It was the voice of a girl. Older than me, but most people were. Right? I… well, it sounded right, but also wrong. My head ached.

I blinked slowly, and shaded light allowed my vision to focus on the girl—a woman, perhaps, given that she had her vallaslin—in front of me. Her hair was dark and short, and her ears were those of a Dalish. (A Dalish? I thought, But isn’t that… Am I Dalish?) “Are you alright, da’len?” she asked, quietly, and I tried to keep my eyes focused. I must be younger than her, I decided, if she is calling me da’len.

I answered with a confused sound. “Keeper!” she beckoned. “Keeper, she is awake!”

I realized I was the ‘she’ they’d been talking about. “’m a boy,” I corrected, words soft and slightly raspy.

The girl has the decency to look upset. “Oh!” she said. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You’re so pretty, and Duncan called you a girl, so we just went with it. I’ll make sure Keeper Marethari knows. I’m Merrill, by the way.” She ducked out, and my ears tingled as I struggled to listen to what was being said.

“…the taint…”

Yes, the darkspawn taint. I knew about that. It happened when you came into contact with darkspawn, ingested their blood, their flesh. I wondered what that had to do with me. (I did not wonder how I knew that.) Though my limbs felt weak, I made to stand. The effort was more difficult than I anticipated; my legs were smaller than I remembered them being, my arms shorter. My whole body was shorter, slimmer. I fell, hardly making a sound against the soft furs I had been lain on.

I tried again. I stared at my legs as I put them under me, watched my arms carefully to make sure I didn’t again reach for a table that was too far. My legs were still weak, but I managed to stand.

I wobbled, feeling for all the world like a newborn halla, and carefully maneuvered my body to the door. What had happened to make even something so natural become so difficult? I pushed my way out into the wide world and the smell of the forest astounded me.

The momentary stun was all that it took to draw everyone’s attention to me. An old woman, also Dalish, was quick to hurry over and fuss over me. A young man with orange hair watched me with wary, tired confusion. I could just see his ears pointing out beyond his hair, so he must be like me and the girl and the old woman, then. The man, though, an older man with some gray hiding amidst his brown hair, he was shemlen. Even if his blunt ears did not give that away, his greater height and broader shoulders would have.

“Da’len,” the old woman said to me, and my eyes (doubtlessly staring, doubtlessly wide) turned to her. “Aneth ara. I am the Keeper of this clan. Are you alright? Where is your clan?”

I frowned. “I… do not know.” I looked at her. I knew I must have a clan, but I couldn’t remember a clan. Instead, I remembered flashes of shemlen, of cats and dogs. Were they my family? “I do not remember.”

She made a worried noise. “Do you remember your name? There have not been any clans near ours for a long time, but I would return you to your family if I could.”

“Amir?” I said, and narrowed my eyes at the word. “No, that’s wrong. I think I am… Vir’era?” I bit my lip. “I don’t even know how old I am.” The waver in my voice couldn’t be stopped, but I kept the whine at bay.

“Your vallaslin is still raw, da’len,” Merrill said, stepping slowly to me. “You… you must be quite young, still.”

“Keeper,” the man said, and his voice was soft. “If he is to survive…”

Keeper Marethari’s lips pursed, and she closed her eyes for a long moment. “Vir’era, I am afraid that… I am afraid I must give you terrible news.” I said nothing, and after a long moment, she took a breath and spoke again. “Da’len, this man is Duncan. He found you and Theron outside a cave, sick with the Blight.”

The Blight. “There is a Blight in Ferelden,” I murmured, but my words were strong.

“We do not know that yet,” Duncan tried to reassure, but I shook my head.

“No, there is a Blight. And you… are a Grey Warden. You must be looking for recruits.” I looked directly into Duncan’s eyes, and saw his brows furrowing.

“Lethallin, how did you know that?” Merrill asked, putting a hand to my arm.

I turned to her. “I… think I knew. Before? I was…” Comfort, a soft blanket covering my legs. Something in front of me, something that told me of Ferelden, something that brought me here. “Scrying?” That couldn’t be right. My face twisted.

“Are you a mage? Perhaps your Keeper’s First or Second?” Marethari had yet to tell me how I would be freed of the blightsickness, but I knew. The Grey Wardens were my only hope of living.

“I must have been,” I answered.

“I saw no weapons on him,” Duncan said. “No blades or bows. It is possible I left a staff, thinking it part of the forest.”

Merrill looked to the Keeper, who shook her head at Duncan. “You may have missed it, but my clan would not. Our hunters found nothing but the ruins where you said you rescued them.” Then her eyes returned to me. “Not to worry, dear,” she reassured, soothingly. “I shall have a staff made for you. It will not be notable, I am afraid, because…” She trailed off, realizing she had yet to tell me of my fate.

“I must go with the Grey Warden, mustn’t I?”

Her shoulders dropped ever so slightly. “Yes, da’len, I am afraid so. You and Theron both.” I nodded. “There is no cure for the Blight, but if you become a Grey Warden, you should have a better chance.”

“Okay,” I said.

“We must leave soon,” Duncan warned. Theron stared at the shadows on the forest floor, looking for all the world like he wished he could drown in them the way one could drown in water.

Merrill took me gently around the shoulders and started to lead me towards the clan’s craftsmaster. As we passed Theron, I whispered quietly to him, “I’m sorry about Tamlen.”

He stared at me, and his jaw clenched.

The man who made my staff could not stop staring at me. He thought my appearance—both my physical state and how I had come from nowhere—fascinating, and perhaps a bit frightening. He wasn’t craftsmaster for nothing, though, and the staff he made was wonderful. Simpler than he would have liked, I could tell, but it would serve its purpose. I thanked him.

We left before nightfall, and the sounds of the mourning song for Tamlen followed us. I sang along, quietly, because singing keeps me calm, and something told me that was going to be extremely important in the future.

It’s when I fell asleep under the stars that night, with petrichor caressing the whole of the forest, that I remembered who I was. My screaming woke Theron, and Duncan (who had been keeping watch), told me later it hadn’t sounded normal at all. “I don’t normally scream,” I whispered, staring at the fire and clutching the blanket I’d been given with all the strength in my fingers.

“I guess I’m just glad you didn’t burn everything down.”

My eyes slid to my staff, and I wondered if I even knew how to wield its magic. I wasn’t from here. I was from a completely different universe, bereft of magic. With cars and computers and cell phones, and I felt a deep pain reside in my chest. “I remember,” I said, slowly. The words felt like cat’s claws on my tongue.

“You remember?” Theron asked. “Do you remember Tamlen?”

“Theron…” Duncan admonished, but I shook my head.

I looked him in the eyes and felt mine heat with tears. “He can’t be saved. Couldn’t have been. The mirror corrupted him. I—I don’t want to say more.”

Theron started to cry, punching the ground. He hated that I had come here. “I shouldn’t be here,” I said. “I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong. This isn’t—I’m not—” But how was I supposed to explain? They wouldn’t understand. Or they’d think I’m a demon.

“The eluvian brought me here. That mirror—I don’t know how, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” It brought me here when I… Well, to be honest, I didn’t know what I’d been doing. But I knew what would happen in this, and I was going to make it better. Make it right, maybe. I couldn’t go back. The eluvian—I couldn’t get to it on my own, and Duncan would never allow it. Maybe someday I could go to Kirkwall. Find Merrill again. Help her fix it and… and return. Home.

Duncan sighed. “Tomorrow,” he said, his voice a low sound like the crackling fire, “I have some other recruits for you to meet. I had them camp half a day away. They are human, and I didn’t want to upset your clan.”

I don't know if he was diverting the subject for me, or for some other reason. I just nodded, took my staff in my hand, and curled in on myself. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. The wood of my staff felt alive, and it comforted me. I didn’t remember there being other recruits in the game, but just because they hadn’t existed then doesn’t mean they couldn’t exist now. Perhaps there would be more mages.

I saw a roach scuttling towards my meager belongings and sent a small wintry blast towards it. This body knew how to wield its magic, at least, as familiar to it as a bike would have been to me in my… my homeland.

The camp with the other recruits had a tense air around it. It only got more tense when they saw myself and Theron, and I couldn’t help the thought that it was because we were Dalish—not only that, but I was a mage. My heart stuttered, and I stepped instinctively behind Theron. He seemed to notice, and while he gave me a confused look, he didn’t stop me.

“We have extra rabbit, if you haven’t had dinner yet,” one of the recruits offered. An elf boy, from the Denerim alienage. Tabris. I didn’t see any dwarves, but there were two humans (perhaps the Couslands had twins in this…reality?), and there were two mages—one human boy and one elf girl.

The nobles seemed on edge by the presence of so many elves, especially Darrien. He kept giving them suspicious looks, and I couldn’t blame him—not with how he’d been recruited. He didn’t seem to know what to make of the mages, though, nor of Theron and myself.

“Thank you, Darrien,” Duncan responded. “First, introductions.” He gestured with one large hand towards Theron, quirking an eyebrow when he saw me half-hidden. “This is Theron, and behind him is Vir’era.”

“Vir’era?” the noble boy asked. “Do all Dalish girls have—?”

“He’s a boy,” Theron defended. I swallowed, and tried not to let on how nervous I was, but my hands were gripping my staff as tight as they could. I was grateful that, despite his general anger at me, Theron seemed to prefer to defend me.

“My apologies for my brother,” the girl said. “He doesn’t think before he speaks. I am Capella, and he is Castor.” She patted the mabari sitting next to her. “This is my mabari, Stellaluna, and his mabari is Dracula.”

I nodded at them to be polite, but—weren’t the human names Aedan and Elissa? Perhaps things were going to be more different than I thought. I almost asked if they were both rogues, but thought better of it quickly. They’d hardly classify their skills like that in a real setting, would they?

“By the fire is Darrien,” Duncan continued, “and over there you can see Neria and Daylen.” The mages looked at me with particular fascination, and it was all I could do to muster up a small smile.

While Duncan started over towards Darrien, I tugged gently on Theron’s arm. He turned to me quickly, glancing around, and I noted that perhaps there were better ways to get his attention—ones that wouldn’t lead him to expect trouble. “I—um, sorry, I just… Theron, I’m going to need help,” I said, very quietly. “I have a… an illness, other than the Blight, and—and I… in my home, I had medicine for it from a doctor, but I don’t know how to replicate it or what the ingredients were. It…” Maybe confiding in him wasn’t really wise, but he was all I had.

“What sort of illness is this?” he asked. His voice was low and calm. Either he had forgiven me, or he had decided that sticking together was more important.

“An illness of the mind,” I revealed. “A permanent sort of anxiety. Without my medication, it can get very bad. Can… can I go to you? For help? It won’t always be much. Just someone to… help me with the small things.”

“Tell me more of it later, and we shall figure out how I can best help.” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I was never more thankful to have come to a Dalish origin. I was certain, at that moment, that it was because I was now at least considered Dalish that he would agree so easily to help me. The Dalish look out for each other, after all.

I smiled beatifically, and we joined Duncan and Darrien by the fire.

“So…” Darrien started as we began to eat. “You’re Dalish? Real, actual Dalish?” I couldn’t tell if it was awe or skepticism in his voice; perhaps it was both.

“Yes,” Theron said, simply.

“You know, we city elves hear stories about the Dalish, but they’re just stories,” Darrien continued. He poked a stick idly at the fire; small sparks pirouetted into the air. “I never thought… I mean, I didn’t think I’d ever meet one.”

“And now you’ve met two.” Theron smiled benignly.

“And now I’ve met two.” Darrien laughed, a short sound, but it released some of the tension from the air. “If only the others could see me now! Shianni would never stop laughing, and Soris—well. They can’t see me.” I had to take a deep breath.

“The Dalish really let their mages live out of the Circle?” A voice beside and slightly behind me nearly made me drop my remaining rabbit. I definitely squeaked, pressing close to Theron out of instinct. In a second, he had a hand on Dar’Misu and he was tensing to pull the blade on Neria when Duncan calmly intervened with a hand on Theron’s shoulder.

“S-sorry!” I stammered. I swallowed and took a few short breaths. “I—it’s been a long couple of days.” A pitiful excuse.

Theron stared at me and I ducked my head in shame. I’d need to work on my reactions; a jump and a squeak would help no one in any situation, and it had been at least as terrible recently for him as for me.

“No harm done,” Duncan said. “Neria, perhaps next time speak from where Vir’era can see you?” He didn’t mention Theron, but as it was, Theron seemed to be willing to act my personal bodyguard, for the time being, so perhaps that was just understood from context.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Neria apologized. She sat beside me, but left enough space for at least one other elf (or a thin human) to sit. Daylen sat beside her, and even the two nobles got interested enough to wander over.

“I know.” I couldn’t say it was okay, because my reaction had been terrible, but I could at least reassure her that I knew.

“You didn’t answer her question, though,” Castor noted, pushing into the conversation. “I’d rather like to know, myself. And to know why the Dalish were amenable to giving not just one, but two recruits—unless you volunteered, of course.”

Capella smoothly backed him up. “I admit my own curiosity there, too. We’re nobility, you see, and whenever there were Dalish near or on our lands, they hardly enjoyed interacting with—what is it you call us? Shems?”

“Shemlen,” Theron corrected, quietly. “But sometimes shems, yes.” He looked to me, but when I didn’t pick up the explanation, he took over. “We had little choice. We have been infected with the blightsickness.”

Neria gasped. “But how?” she asked.

Theron clenched his jaw. Duncan stood, throwing the last of his meat towards the mabari. Stellaluna caught it, causing Dracula to whine. “Perhaps that is a story for another time,” he said. His voice felt like a blanket, comforting and covering. What other secrets would he cover? “For now, it has been a longer walk than I anticipated, and we should sleep. Capella, Castor, if you would take first watch?” They nodded. “Good. Then Neria and Daylen.” Nods again. “Last, myself and Darrien. Tonight, we shall let Vir’era and Theron sleep.”

I helped Theron put up his tent, and then he helped me with mine. When we were finished, he looked at me expectantly, and I bit my lip. “Can… can we talk about it in my tent?” He sighed slightly, but acquiesced, and we slipped inside.

I didn’t know where to start. “You said something of a permanent anxiety,” he prompted.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “It’s called anxiety disorder among my clan.” I would keep the ruse of clan up for now. “It is more common than you would think, and I would be surprised if one of our new… friends did not have something similar.” He just nodded.

“Many illnesses of the mind are like that.”

I felt so much lighter hearing him say that; I wasn’t speaking crazy to him, after all, then! “Yeah. It’s… I can usually manage okay, but for me, it is… people make it worse. Especially new people.” I winced.

“So then, at the fire earlier, with Neria, that was your anxiety?” he asked, peering at me.

I nodded haltingly. “Ssssort of. I was also just really out of sorts. Am out of sorts. It. My anxiety, it gets worse. The longer I go without my medication, the worse it will get, until it is back to what it was before. I don’t know how long that will take. A week? A month?” I sighed. “It makes everyday tasks that much harder to do. I can barely speak to people, can’t stand crowds, and avoid social visits at virtually all costs.”

“What would you like my help with, then? I can make sure you eat and are safe, but outside of that, I am unsure what you’re asking of me.” He seemed genuinely concerned. He was leaning forward, his arms were relaxed, and his brows were furrowed; it made me more comfortable.

“I… sometimes I have panic attacks. My body refuses to work the way it is meant to, and I often will become mostly unresponsive. It feels hard to breathe when that happens, and I think I shake. If that happens, just… talk to me. Maybe, I don't know, hold my hand or something. So that I know someone’s there.” My hands clenched on my knees, fingernails digging into my skin. “I used to have—have things that helped. Little material objects. A stuffed toy din—dragon. I called her Suzie-Ann. But I have nothing now, and if you could help…”

He leaned forward and gently pried my hand from my leg. He squeezed it, and I concentrated on the feeling of his hand to keep myself from mindlessly squeezing it. “Like this?” he asked.

I nodded. “I—I don't mean anything by it, of course!” I said, suddenly, eyes wide as I stared up at him. “You… you don’t have to.”

“Anything for a friend. We will need to have friends. I ask only that you watch my back in return.” He smiled at me. His voice was calming, like a cat’s purr.

“Thank you,” I said slowly.

He squeezed my hand again and started to leave my tent, but turned. “You told me about Tamlen,” he said, and my heart broke, because I knew more than I could tell. “I can do this for you. And if your night terrors are too much, you know where to find me.”

I smiled, but it felt wavering even to me. Hopefully he just took it as part of my symptoms. Hopefully he wouldn’t tell anyone.

I wondered if I should have told Duncan.

He was going to die anyways. What use was telling him?

Eventually, I’d tell Alistair. I might tell the other recruits, but I didn’t know how they would take the news. Babysitting a somewhat mentally unsound Dalish mage? Many would bristle. I wouldn’t blame them.

The days walking to Ostagar were awkward. I was constantly falling behind—as were the other two mages, so I felt less out of place. Neria made a few more halting attempts to find out what had brought myself and Theron along as Grey Wardens, but Daylen kept her from asking too much. She told me how she and Daylen had come, maybe in an attempt to get me to talk. I guess if I hadn’t already known about Jowan’s betrayal, I’d’ve felt more obligated to reply in kind.

Darrien kept Theron between himself and the Couslands; Theron didn’t seem to mind. He spoke quite calmly with Capella, and even sparred with Castor. He didn’t seem particularly excited to be heading to a place crawling with shemlen, but he didn’t mind the twins or Daylen. He liked Daylen better, though. Probably because Daylen never just stared at him or me or Darrien as if we were something altogether unusual. Castor sometimes did, and Capella seemed to assess us.

Perhaps once we were all Grey Wardens—once we were all that was left of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden—things would be easier. Castor and Capella would still be noble, certainly, because even the Joining wouldn’t change that, but we would all be bound to the same fate, then.

I wondered if they would all survive the Joining. If I would survive. What if only the “true” Warden, whoever it was, could survive?

I could only wait.

I didn’t expect Ostagar to be so welcome a sight, considering what would happen there, but there was also time for rest, now, if only until the next night.

King Cailan in the flesh was… So much different than I had thought. He exuded a more kingly air, like he made the ground royal simply by stepping on it, like he was giving you the gift you most desired when he smiled at you. And he was going to die. I tried not to be too obvious about my melancholy.

Being introduced with such a group surprised him; he mentioned expecting perhaps two recruits, and yet Duncan returned with seven. “Well done!” he congratulated.

He recognized Capella and Castor, and Capella had the utmost respect. Castor let his sister do the talking. His jaw tightened when she revealed their parents’ death at Arl Howe’s order, but he did not step out of line. Darrien gave a simple ‘Your Majesty,’ obviously turning over the events Vaughan had caused in his mind. Daylen and Neria both bowed, and Cailan seemed rather excited about the presence of mages, compared to what I’d expected.

“I am Theron, your Majesty, and this is Vir’era.” Theron’s voice was sure even as it was soft. I bowed my head, hands clutching my staff.

“You are Dalish, are you not? I hear your people possess remarkable skill and honor.” It felt like I’d heard those words a hundred times.

“Thank you,” Theron said, but I felt him clench and unclench his hands. He wanted to speak more plainly, but did not want to offend.

“I tell you this: You are welcome here,” Cailan continued, gesturing grandiosely and then smiling a charming, sunlight-on-gold grin at all seven of us. “The Grey Wardens will benefit greatly with you amongst them.”

And off he went, excusing himself to find Loghain. Tension slipped down my shoulders and to the ground like a sheet when he left, but as Duncan turned us to our own devices, temporarily, it clenched its terrible arms around my waist once more.

I hovered around Theron the whole time. Our group started off more or less together, but Daylen and Neria broke off to speak with Wynne, and the Couslands went over near the King’s tent. Darrien slunk along on the other side of Theron. “Where do you think Alistair is?” he pondered, looking to me then to Darrien, who shrugged.

“On an errand, maybe?” I suggested. I knew where he would be if it followed the game, but… Well, suffice to say this hadn’t exactly followed the game.

“You three! Elves!” We tensed, and Darrien glared at the source of the sound. “Where’s my equipment? I sent a girl after it an hour ago!”

“How should I know?” Darrien spat, and Theron stepped in front of him. He didn’t look any more pleased than the city elf, but he at least could maintain cool civility.

“We are Grey Wardens, ser, not servants, and I would thank you to remember that.” The man—the Ash Warrior—raised his hands placatingly, but it felt mocking.

“No harm meant,” he said. “Hopefully you’ll make better Grey Wardens than that elf makes a servant.” My lips pursed. The warrior muttered something to himself—probably about elves being Grey Wardens at all—but I couldn’t hear the words.

Darrien huffed, but we walked away. I glanced at the kenneled mabari—would there be a sick mabari this time? I couldn’t help hoping there was. If it could imprint on me, I might fare better. My cats had always helped my anxiety before. “Could… could we go see the dogs?”

Theron glanced over at me, blinked, then shrugged. “I don’t see why not. But be careful, they are war dogs.”

“Like Stellaluna and Dracula. I know.” The kennel master, when we arrived, seemed agitated.

“You wouldn’t happen to be heading into the Korcari Wilds anytime soon, would ya?” he asked, and I felt relief. I could have a dog! Maybe.

“Yes, I think we may be,” I said. Darrien asked ‘what’ under his breath, but didn’t interrupt, and Theron seemed to be content to watch.

“Oh, good,” the man said, shoulders lowering slightly. “When you’re out there, if you happen to see a white flower with red on the inside, I’d be grateful. One of our hounds is sick from darkspawn blood, and I think that should help.”

“Of course,” I said, nodding, and looked at the dogs. They blinked up at me. “I’ll bring some.”

“Thank you, and Maker bless you.”

We wandered away, and the mask I’d slipped on to speak with the man disappeared. I took a few deep breaths. Theron put a hand on my arm and peered at me questioningly, but I gave a little smile and waved him away. I was okay, for the moment. It helped, maybe, that so much of this felt like a play. I knew many of the lines, and I knew the stage directions.

“Let’s find this Alistair, then,” Theron decided, and went over to ask a soldier for aid. We were pointed past the mages’ tents, and soon came upon Alistair as he finished the delivery of his message to a mage from the revered mother.

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together,” he remarked. He seemed so much taller, somehow, in person.

“You are a very strange human,” Theron replied, apparently seeing no need for the propriety he’d used with the king.

“Yeah,” Alistair said, “I get that a lot.” He chuckled a bit, shaking his head, then looked closer at the three of us. “Wait, we haven’t met, have we?” Seeing my staff, he added, “I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”

Theron took over for me, though I honestly felt, at that moment, that I could have slid easily into a conversation with Alistair, like an old friend or something. “No,” he confirmed, “we haven’t met. You must be Alistair.”

Alistair grinned. “Then you’re Duncan’s new recruits, I suppose? Glad to meet you.”

“Some of them, anyway,” Darrien put in.

“Oh?” Alistair’s eyebrows lifted. “You mean he actually managed to find more?”

Theron nodded. “Yes. There are four others; two mages and two human nobles.”

“Aha,” the man said. “I see. So, three mages. Well, that’s three more than I was expecting.” He slipped into a more professional manner, standing slightly taller and smiling less. “As the junior member of the order, I’ll be joining you when you prepare for the Joining.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, then.” Theron indicated Darrien, himself, then me. “This is Darrien, I’m Theron, and this is Vir’era.”

Alistair motioned back the way we came. “Let’s find the other recruits, then, shall we?” We fell in, Theron easily walking beside him. I stood mostly behind Theron, still, and Darrien gravitated beside me and behind Alistair. “So, I’m curious, have any of you actually encountered darkspawn before?”

“I haven’t,” Darrien said.

“I did.” Theron’s voice was clipped. “It was not something I enjoyed.” I didn’t answer.

Alistair nodded. “When I fought my first one, I wasn’t prepared for how monstrous it was.” He glanced back at me, then back to Theron, and then finally looked at Darrien. “Say, and I don’t mean to be rude, but the two of you, you’re Dalish, right? And Darrien, you’re not?”

“I’m from the Alienage in Denerim,” Darrien offered. He seemed to be warming up to Alistair, compared to the other humans in the camp. He didn’t glare for Alistair’s question, anyways. I think the simple fact that Alistair remembered his name helped.

“Vir’era and I come from the Brecilian forest.” Theron’s lie was so smooth, I almost didn’t notice it. Did he mean to act as though I was from his clan, as well? It might be for the better, but it wouldn’t take long for that to fall apart. I didn’t know enough about clan life. When we eventually searched out the other clan with the werewolf problem…

A problem for another day, I supposed.

As we passed the mages, I caught Neria’s eye by chance and beckoned her over. I could see her make excuses with Wynne, and then she and Daylen scurried over to our group and we grew by two. “More recruits?” Alistair asked. “You’re the other two mages, I presume?”

“Yes,” Daylen said. “I’m Daylen.”

“And I’m Neria. It’s a pleasure.” Neria smiled at Alistair, and he grinned back.

“A woman! There’s never been many women Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is.” He looked around thoughtfully as he kept moving forward.

“Maybe we’re just smarter,” Neria said.

“Then what does that make you?” Daylen poked her in the side, and she made a flabbergasted sound. Alistair laughed. It sounded like sunlight.

When we reached Duncan, Castor and Capella were already there, and had apparently found Ser Jory and Daveth. It was a large group, now, and when we set out in the wilds, it was… awkward. Neria cast a spell to ice weapons when wolves attacked, but Daylen tried to set them aflame. One of Capella’s arrows nearly hit Ser Jory instead of its mark, and until I called out in surprise, those with close-range weapons didn’t realize they’d all gone to attack head on while the long-range people got flanked.

Thankfully, though, Alistair had stayed behind, acting more as an overseer than as aid, and he helped when my spells weren’t quite enough to prevent a wolf from getting close to me. He slit its throat, and I burned it for good measure.

The white-and-red flower was easy to find, and then we fought our way through darkspawn (slowly more organized as a unit). I couldn’t quite hide my shock, and while for me it stemmed from the whole act of fighting, everyone else seemed to take it as shock at the darkspawn. Daylen was similarly nervous, and Jory… well.

Morrigan’s voice was as mystifying as ever, and with such a large group, the reactions were varied. Daylen and Neria seemed merely in awe. Capella appraised Morrigan, and seemed to respect her, at least. Castor scrutinized her. Daveth, Ser Jory, and Darrien were all on edge immediately, and Alistair was similarly cautious. I just watched her, knowing she was essentially harmless. Theron was hard to read. I thought he looked relaxed, but it could have been a front; it could also have been that he was trusting my read on her.

I don’t know why he’d do that, though.

It didn’t take much persuasion to follow Morrigan. Capella and Castor both thought it the only rational option, and the mages were delighted to. Alistair remained on edge, though, until Morrigan had returned our sizable troop back to Ostagar, even when the treaties were safely in our possession.

The sun was already setting. I delivered the flower to the kennel master, helped the poor mabari, and soon the Joining was ready. My heart pounded; I could feel my pulse in my fingertips, in my lips, in my toes. Theron caught onto my nerves and deliberately stood next to me. As the ritual began, I prayed I could go first. I didn’t want to see Ser Jory’s death at Duncan’s hand, and I’d rather wake up to find who had survived than watch them live or die after convulsions.

I got my wish, in the end.

The blood tasted like shit.


	2. twoooooo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note- most of this i actually wrote in advance. so while my initial updates may be fairly quick, be prepared for them to eventually slow. i'm also probably not going to stick to much of a schedule, but i'll try for at least one chapter a week after this. also also, as of bits i've more recently written that won't be seen here for some time yet, i'm gonna edit the rating to m to be safe. while it's not really graphic violence, there's enough of that and some heavy shit to come that i feel like it'd just be more appropriate to rate it m than t.

When I awoke, Duncan and Alistair were flitting around, hovering over their new Wardens. Theron had already woken up, and had put my head in his lap. Capella was braiding her brother’s long red hair as she waited for him. Neria, Daylen, and Darrien were still out, but the fact that they’d been put into more comfortable positions—and that neither Daveth nor Jory were in sight—told me they were, indeed, alive.

“It’s a big turnout,” Alistair said, noticing me as I slowly sat up. “Two didn’t make it—and in mine, one didn't—but this is a good number. Seven out of nine.” He seemed pleased by the success, even though I could tell he still didn’t like the loss.

“That’s good,” I murmured, sitting, and Alistair grinned.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you talk!” he declared. I blushed and looked at my hands.

“He’s just quiet, that’s all.” Theron stood up and held out one hand to help me up. I took it, a small smile sent to him in thanks.

Alistair shrugged. “I don’t mind. I talk a lot, though, so I hope you don’t mind. I suppose I just like the sound of my own voice.” He grinned again. Ever cheeky.

I giggled, and the sound of it surprised Alistair into a laugh of his own. “I like listening,” I said. Honestly, I also liked talking, but what could I talk about here? There was nothing I could speak of to them that would have a mutual amount of understanding.

“Good,” he said. Castor groaned, starting to wake up, and swatted Capella’s hand. Dracula bounded up to him, enthusiastically greeting his master back into the waking world.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Capella sing-songed. Castor just groaned again. “Glad you made it through.” Even though the smile on her face was smug and lightly mocking, the hand she ran over his now-braided red hair was gentle.

“As if something as stupid as a drink would kill me.” Castor pushed Dracula back, and I couldn’t help but smile. “I told you, Ella, didn’t I? It’d take at least a dragon to get to me, and dragons are dead.”

Alistair flinched, and I stared down at my hands. Theron side eyed me. He absolutely could tell that I knew more than I would let on. I wished I could tell him, but I didn’t dare. Not yet. Not now.

Daylen, in the end, was the last to wake up. Neria hugged him so tightly when he did awaken that I thought he’d pass right back out, but he just returned the favor. Darrien seemed more at ease as a fully-fledged Warden than as a recruit. When Capella offered her hand to help him up, he took it, and even thanked her.

“If you’re all ready, then,” Duncan said, and told us to meet him at the war table. We would be going over the strategy for the battle.

How would Flemeth save us all? Would she just save those she could catch, would some be left to die on the Tower of Ishal? Would all of us even go to the tower?

Duncan did send us all to the Tower of Ishal, but it took some negotiating with both Loghain and Cailan. “They are Wardens, yes, but very new recruits. Only three have any battle skills. They will be a greater boon to hold the tower than on the battlefield, and Alistair shall lead them.”

I quietly pointed out to Theron that the tower was isolated, but an easy option for the darkspawn to flank. He repeated this to Duncan, and that sealed our fate. All seven new Wardens would be led by Alistair to defend the tower and light the beacon. I hoped it would be enough.

Alistair was agitated to not join the battle’s main front, as always, but when it started, he was even more fierce in real life. Real gore is so different; there are no health bars for the enemies, and you don’t simply hit over and over. Theron’s arrow would down one darkspawn, and Castor’s daggers would mutilate another. Neria, Daylen, and I worked spells and shields from the back, trying to clear the way as much as possible. I found myself instinctively sending a quick healing spell at Alistair to stop some bleeding, and wondered if I knew more than a basic patch.

We tore a bloody path up to the tower, and when my prediction of it being flanked rang true, Theron took a moment to look over at me and simply stare before we surged forward. The soldier and Circle mage both joined us; there was no party limit in reality. It took less time to get up to the top than I expected, but I suppose that’s what happens when a single blow really can kill the enemy and you don’t dare spend any precious time looting.

Well, Theron and Capella paused to gather their arrows when they could, but didn’t spend long on it. If a quick couple tugs couldn’t get it loose, they left it behind. They had a good number of arrows, anyways, and should be able to buy more later. Hopefully. If they were still alive.

The ogre at the top was huge. It was at least twice Alistair’s height, and three times his width, and Alistair was the largest of our group. (Castor was taller, but thinner, and mages and elves were simply… not robust.) We could smell it clear across the room—like the moldy-stale scent of food kept too long in the fridge, times ten. I choked, and the other mages used their sleeves to keep the smell at bay.

I didn’t have time to think about what to do to ensure that at least most of us could be saved by Flemeth. At least Alistair and Theron would need to live, I had decided—the twins had a brother who could continue the Cousland nobility, and the mages and Darrien were not fighters. Alistair and Theron had the best chance to live and defeat the Archdemon.

And die doing that, unless they made that deal with Morrigan, but that was for another day.

So instead I simply yelled as loudly as I could at the creature and turned myself over to the wrath of winter, my body a conduit and the ogre my target. The mages joined me, freezing its blood in its veins, slowing its movements. But it was still a large and hardy creature, and our magics had not been honed enough for battle.

Two of Theron’s arrows hit where its heart should have been, but didn’t sink nearly far enough into the skin. Capella disabled it with a few rapid shots into its thigh, and then Alistair charged with a howling rage. He jumped and sank his blade into the chest through the area above its collarbone. Castor followed as the beast fell, shoving a dagger through each eye, ensuring its death.

I slumped slightly, pressing my back against a pillar. Releasing that magic had taken more strength than I expected, and I took several long breaths. I couldn’t focus my eyes, but I heard Alistair order Theron to light the signal. My breath caught and my eyes began to burn; I whimpered. “It won’t work,” I whispered, my hands gripping my hair.

Theron came over and crouched by me. “It will.” His voice was soft. “Duncan will come for us soon.”

“It won’t,” I repeated. A tear slipped past and burned down my cheek.

The door slammed open. Darkspawn arrows hailed onto us, and I saw Theron’s eyes widen before something hit my head and there was only black.

 

I didn’t really expect to wake up, but when I did, I could recognize the inside of Flemeth’s hut. I was laying on the floor, some furs between myself and the ground. I heard Morrigan speaking, and a pair of feminine voices replying. “Ah,” she said, after a moment, and moved into my line of sight. “She awakens at last.”

“I’m a boy,” I corrected.

She frowned. “A boy? Most curious. You do have, after all—”

“I know,” I stressed. “I’m still a boy.”

She hummed. “That explains the chest, at least.” Neria and Capella both looked at me, but I avoided their stares. My face was red enough as it was. “There was little we could do for your smallclothes, unless you wanted them stained through with blood.”

“I don’t exactly have any others, do I?”

Morrigan shrugged. “That hardly stops others, but ‘tis your choice. Dress yourselves, and be quick about it. Mother wishes to see you, and your friends are quite worried. Especially the large one.”

“Alistair?” Capella asked, an eyebrow raised as she smirked at Morrigan’s description. Morrigan sighed dramatically.

“Yes, I suppose ‘tis his name, is it not? Do hurry, now.” She wandered over to the fire, where she was presumably preparing supper. She wasn’t making much; she did not plan to feed our group unless absolutely necessary.

“Morrigan?” Neria asked. From the rustling, I assumed she was putting on a robe. I found one by my head, as well; it wasn’t the one I had been wearing previously, but at least it was something. “How did your mother save us?”

Morrigan stirred the pot and hummed. “She turned into a giant bird. The one called Theron was still aware enough to push a few of you onto her back, and she plucked two in each claw.” At the silence that greeted her, she smirked. “If you do not believe me, ask her yourself. Or that Theron. I am sure they would be happy to oblige. Off you go, now.” She shooed us away.

I finished tugging the robes over my body. They were ill-fitting: too much space in the chest, obviously made for a woman. I pulled at it uselessly, then sighed. I would simply have to find a way to tailor it later, or trade for a different robe when we went to Lothering, or Redcliffe, or the Circle of Magi. When I looked up, both Capella and Neria were waiting by the door for me, and we exited together.

“You’re alright!” Alistair exclaimed. “Oh, thank the Maker!” For a moment, I thought he was going to run up and hug us, but he didn’t. I kinda wanted to run up and hug him, or Theron, though, so I wouldn't have minded.

“Why did he get to be in the house?” Castor asked, gesturing at me. “I thought they were just keeping the girls in there, and that he’d died or something.”

My face reddened again. “They thought I was a girl.” Castor just scoffed and rolled his eyes, but seemed to accept the answer. He’d thought so, too, after all. I slipped over to Theron’s side. Capella watched. She had heterochromia, I noticed, and so did her brother. It was somewhat unnerving to have her bicolored gaze following me.

Theron spoke quietly to me while Daylen fretted over Neria and Castor exchanged quips with Capella. “Morrigan’s mother is very powerful. She was a dragon, though she would have me tell that her form was a very large bird’s. We should be very careful of her.”

“She’s more than what she seems, I’m sure of it,” I agreed. Maybe I agreed too readily, though, because Theron’s eyebrows furrowed and his eyes narrowed consideringly.

The simple fact that the three mages and Theron all seemed to treat Flemeth with careful respect seemed to stem much of Alistair’s distrust and confusion, but it didn’t stop his comments. Capella stayed silent as Theron and Alistair worked out what had happened, and why Flemeth had helped them.

Castor and Darrien both muttered with no small amount of distrust, but their comments were wisely kept to themselves.

“Will we be having guests, or none?” Ah, so now it was time for Morrigan to join us. The great band of misfits we would become—and if I had my way, we would recruit everyone. Four mages (two of which were elves, and one of those which was Dalish, and one Witch of the Wilds), all now considered apostates at least. Eight Grey Wardens. Four elves, two Dalish, and one city elf with a major grudge against humans. Two noble children driven from their home, apparently by the new regent’s orders. A merry band.

It’d grow merrier with the drunk dwarf, the Antivan assassin, the Qunari murderer, the Chantry priest and bard… A merry band, indeed. What will Wynne think?

Morrigan’s squawk at Flemeth’s demand that she leave with us brought me back to the present. Her banter with Flemeth felt so much more natural with this perspective; I could see her tense and pace and cross her arms as Flemeth stood firm, smirking at her daughter. But Capella’s smooth voice cut in, apparently all too happy to add Morrigan to our number.

Alistair tried to side with Morrigan, but Flemeth shot him down, and Capella continued her persuasion of the black-haired witch. Predictably, Flemeth got her way. We left, then, heading for Lothering as Morrigan suggested.

With so many people, we were able to set different watches for different nights. We didn’t have as many tents, though, because while Flemeth had been able to provide us with a few, there were simply not enough for everyone. Five was all we were given. The Couslands easily agreed to share. Morrigan insisted on having her own, though, so the other arrangements ended up as myself and Theron, Alistair and Darrien, and Neria and Daylen.

It might be easier when we did some recruiting. Surely Leliana and Zevran, at least, would have their own tents? And Zevran certainly would not be opposed to sharing.

About a day away from Flemeth’s hut, and some amount less so from Ostagar, a dog came bounding up to us. Stellaluna and Dracula growled, but I strode forward with all the confidence of a show-horse, and the new dog ran circles around me. I had a dog, a mabari war hound. “Isn’t that the one you helped at Ostagar?” Theron asked.

“Must be,” I answered.

“I think he was searching for you.” Alistair seemed a bit in awe.

I reached down and gave the dog a fond head-rub. “I’m calling him Littlefoot.” A reminder, if a small and innocuous one, of my life before this mess. I loved dinosaurs so much… “Do you like that name? Littlefoot?”

Littlefoot barked happily and ran in a brief circle. I smiled. “Good. You’ll have to be nice to all these people, and to those other two dogs. That’s Stellaluna, and that’s Dracula. They’re friends, okay?”

Littlefoot just wagged his tail, then went over to sniff and greet his new companions.

“Great, another mutt.” Morrigan pursed her lips. I didn’t care.

Lothering took time to reach. Less time than Ostagar from the Brecilian Forest, but still a couple days’ walk. I was more relieved than I would like to admit to reach civilization again. Morrigan was more insufferable in person; while she could be friendly, and seemed more willing to speak with mages, she was still haughty and unapproachable much of the time.

Darrien still kept distance between himself and Capella whenever possible, but started to spar with Castor. His fighting style, from my observations, would lend better to a two-handed weapon than the sword and shield he was currently attempting to wield, but we had no larger weapons. Castor fought dirty, especially for a nobleman; he was not above hitting where it hurt or throwing literal dirt.

Theron watched me carefully as we entered Lothering. I think he was waiting for me to say another oddly-particular thing, give another prediction. I didn’t have to, for now. Dealing with the “highwaymen” was easy. We were a formidable group, and managed to scare them off without need for bloodshed. When we got to the town proper, the first thing Alistair thought to do was check with the Chantry, and the Couslands offered to check the tavern for rumors.

It was agreed by general consensus that the mages should avoid the tavern and actually being inside the Chantry if possible, so that we wouldn’t be declared apostates, though I knew Lothering had too much to worry about at the moment to care much about a few possible apostates. Especially when we weren’t causing trouble for anyone. (Well, except Teyrn Loghain.)

Littlefoot was all too happy to simply walk by my side. Neria, Daylen, Morrigan, and I wandered the outskirts of town. Darrien was with Alistair and Theron. “So, Morrigan,” Neria said, casually. “You’ve really been here before, and still no one ever… found out?”

Morrigan scoffed. “Of course they had their suspicions,” she replied, “but they never found anything. I was simply a stranger, ‘tis all. They do not look kindly upon strangers here.”

“Is Flemeth really your mother?” Daylen had the subtlety of an elephant.

“’Twas she who raised me, yes.” Morrigan raised an eyebrow at her fellow human. “But I do not think that is what you meant, is it not? Alas, ‘tis all that matters to me.”

He hummed. “What was it like, being raised by the Flemeth?”

“Like being raised by any woman who is also a witch, I should think.” Morrigan flipped her hair distractedly from her face. “I cannot say I have experience with anything else with which to compare it. What was it like living in the Circle?”

“I guess you’ve got a point,” Daylen conceded. “Life in the Circle meant no privacy ever, really. So you always knew who was doing what, and so did the Templars. I mean, it wasn’t all that bad, but sometimes I didn’t want to know what other people were doing, if you get my drift.”

“I think even a child could understand that.” Ah, her rapier wit. Daylen just laughed, and Morrigan even smiled slightly. Perhaps she wasn’t actually trying to be mean, after all.

It’s not like she had much experience with other people.

We picked some elfroot and deathroot to use in potions and poisons. Morrigan claimed to be knowledgeable of both, though both Daylen and Neria expressed ignorance. I kept quiet, thinking. I supposed I should know at least something of potions, being Dalish and a presumed First, but… Well. We’d find out soon enough.

We met back with Alistair’s group and made camp a short distance from the main gathering of refugees, and sometime later in the day, Castor and Capella brought along a delighted Leliana. I wondered about Sten. Theron’s continued glances at me didn’t help.

I knew more than I should, and I’d revealed that too easily already. Theron was suspicious, in a weirdly friendly way, and seemed to be awaiting my next prediction.

We needed supplies, still, and I was all too eager to accompany Alistair and the Couslands when they went to procure them. (They were human, and two were nobles, after all; who better to gain the respect and trust of salespeople?) I tried to play it off as desiring a better-fitting robe, if I could trade for one.

Theron was the only one who continued to watch me.

Talking with the infamous merchant would have been frustrating with anyone except Capella. Her words were like cakes, offered forward on the silver platter of her voice, and people were all too glad to partake. She could probably convince a rock it was water, and it would melt.

She even managed to haggle so deftly that I got a robe significantly nicer than the one from Flemeth’s, and all I had to do was quickly change behind the cart. They got the old robe, unwashed and in all its dirt-hemmed glory, as well as some small other items she’d had on her and a little handful of coin.

Meanwhile, we had some food items, varied bits of armor, and a greatsword, for Darrien. I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed his style favored two-handed weapons. He was delighted when we gave it to him.

“Did you see the man in the cage?” Leliana asked Alistair as he set about trying to make a fire. I sat on a convenient stump nearby, watching and listening. Her French—no, Orlesian accent was both more pronounced and more understandable here.

“The Qunari, you mean? What of it?”

“He looks sad.” She pouted, but Alistair was staring too intently at his sticks to notice.

Theron sighed and took the sticks from Alistair. “You’re doing it wrong,” he muttered, then glanced up at Leliana. “The Revered Mother,” the word was said with some slight derision, “has put him there as bait for the darkspawn.”

Leliana gasped, a very horrified sound. “How horrible! Why would she do that?” One hand pressed against her chest, so very offended.

“He murdered a farmer and his family,” he answered. I shot a flame at Theron’s sticks, igniting them and some of the other kindling. He raised his eyebrows at me, but shrugged and sat back, simply watching it to make sure it wouldn’t die.

“As loathe as some of you would be, I’m sure, to have such a character join our ranks…” Capella sauntered into the spotlight, her hair let down and glowing bright in the late sunlight. “It might not be a bad idea to… requisition him. We don’t have much sheer muscle right now, and I rather think we’ll need it.”

“I agree with my sister.” Castor’s voice made me jump and just about fall off my stump. He snickered and I threw a fistful of dirt his way. He avoided it, of course, but at least the sentiment was understood.

“But he’s a murderer!” Alistair exclaimed. “What if he murders us next?”

Leliana laughed, but at Alistair’s responding sound, she paused. “Oh, you are serious? I do not think he would do that.”

I picked up a nearby twig and drew a line in the dirt. “I think it’d be fine.”

“We should at least talk to him, Alistair.” That Theron would only voice an opinion after I spoke was both a bit worrying and a bit surprising. Did he expect me to be an oracle or a seer or something?

I was just a mage. I wrote my name in the dirt, wiped it out, and wrote Origins instead. My companions continued to talk in the background.


	3. le troisieme

So we recruited Sten. We didn’t have another weapon for him just yet, nor did we have any armor large enough, but maybe soon we would. For now, we’d simply have to rely on his Qunari training to keep him alive and well. While we set up camp, the question of where he would stay came up. Leliana offered to share her tent, but Sten refused outright.

“I do not need a tent. A bedroll will be sufficient.” He crossed his arms, an imposing figure that demanded no further questions.

But Leliana was never so good at letting things drop: “If you should change your mind, there is room for two.” At least she didn’t press the issue, I suppose.

Bodhan Feddic and his son, Sandal, were predictably delighted when we assisted them with the small band of darkspawn as we left Lothering proper. When they appeared near our camp and offered a discount in exchange for what amounted to protection (if an unusual sort wherein they followed us rather than us following them), Theron accepted on our behalf before anyone—Morrigan, really—could protest.

Later, I managed to sidle next to Sten when the others were busy training or cooking or otherwise preparing themselves. I tilted my head to the side, attempting to be the picture of innocence, though I doubted it would really fool him. “Your sword,” I said, quietly. “Has it gone missing?”

He turned his glare on me, and I tried not to flinch. “What would an elf know of Qunari blades?”

“I am a First,” I said. “My Keeper told me once that a Qunari’s blade is… is like my magic. I would not be me without it.” He just stared, and I started to slink back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

He didn’t stop me, but I knew the sword was important. I’d have to ensure that whoever went to Lake Calenhad for the Circle of Magi would at least ask after it. Or I could have someone play the casually interested party in Redcliffe. Capella would be good at that.

Speaking of Redcliffe… Alistair and Theron were frowning at the Grey Warden treaties by the fire. Capella approached them, joining their discussion, and I went to stand by Theron.

“I’m sure Arl Eamon would help us,” Alistair insisted. “We need all the help we can get, and Redcliffe’s on the way to Orzammar, so it’s not like it’d be out of our way.”

“Our priority should be the people who we have treaties for,” Capella countered. “However nice he may be, I doubt the arl would be so willing to help a group that has so few supporters and so many enemies. It simply wouldn’t be wise to approach him until we have more than a handful of fugitive Grey Wardens, even if he believes that Loghain is the traitor, not us.”

Alistair huffed. “Look, I know the arl. He’s a good man, alright? He might be able to give us food or something, too.”

“Just because you met him once or twice while growing up in Redcliffe doesn’t mean you know him or that he cares.” Capella raised an eyebrow. “I could say I know him, as well, as I have met him once or twice when he and my father—Teyrn Cousland, if I must remind you—had business together.”

Alistair seemed ready to counter that argument, if only to defend Eamon, but Theron interrupted. “We do have a number of people with us, and we are eight Wardens. It may be easier to… split up. Send pairs to obtain the treaties, and one pair to Redcliffe to petition the arl.”

Which… is completely different from how it happened in the game. “Are you sure that’s wise?” Alistair asked. “Splitting up? What if one group is attacked? We might not find out until too late.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Theron,” Capella said, “if only for efficiency, but Alistair raises a good point. Not all of us are so knowledgeable about fighting. I think Daylen and Neria, in particular, would make easy targets. They also may be simply confused for apostates, which would make them even more vulnerable.”

“I don’t think they’d be willing to split, either.” I felt a bit bad at shooting down Theron’s idea, but, well.

He sighed. “Then we are back to square one.”

“Arl Eamon is sick,” I ventured. “Alistair, didn’t you say there was a knight in the Chantry on a quest for the Urn of Sacred Ashes? Whatever his sickness is, it is no small matter.” Alistair shifted. “Orzammar is insular, though, and with the Blight, there are likely fewer darkspawn currently threatening the dwarves, so they should be safe for the moment. I suggest we approach them last.”

Capella nodded. “A fair point. Do you know where we may find any Dalish clans?”

“The Brecilian forest is home to many,” Theron said, “but I know our clan, and likely several others, have fled to the North to escape the Blight. Still, it would not be difficult for myself and Vir’era to approach them. The rest of you should perhaps not come along for that, though.”

“We just agreed to not split up, I thought.” Alistair furrowed his brows at Theron, who sighed.

“Yes, fine. But at least let us speak with them first before we drag all manner of outsiders into their camps.” Alistair nodded at that.

“Which,” Capella said, “leaves us with the Circle and Redcliffe.”

I pursed my lips. “Although the other clans may be readying to leave Ferelden, I think we have still time to speak with them.” The werewolves and their plight… It would be reversed if I said the right things, right? If we managed to talk Zathrian down and convince the Lady to accept his apology? A breakable curse seemed less pressing to me than abominations and the walking dead.

Not that I could exactly just outright tell them this.

“I agree with Vir’era.” Theron rubbed a hand over his face. “We Dalish do not enjoy outsiders, though I am certain the clans will honor the treaties. It would be easier to approach them when we are in a less precarious position.”

“As will it be with Redcliffe,” Capella insisted. “Which means that the Circle of Magi is our natural first choice, is it not?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps you’re right.” I glanced over where Sten was staring at the three mabari. “Lake Calenhad is also where Sten said he had been attacked. We may be able to find a weapon and some armor suitable for him among his fallen comrades.”

“You mean to find his sword, don’t you?” Capella asked. I blinked at her, and she smirked. “I wasn’t far off, and I overheard your conversation with him.”

“Yes,” I said, glancing down and moving my staff into my left hand. “Blades are extremely important to the Qunari, and we may be able to secure his loyalty this way.”

Capella hummed. “If it’s along the way, then it certainly is not a bad idea, though I would think a life-debt enough to secure loyalty.”

“Finding his sword would be akin to a life-debt.”

“Do the Qunari really prize their swords so highly?” When I just nodded at her, Capella shrugged. “Then we shall look for it.”

“Thank you.” A half-smirk was her only response.

Alistair frowned, glancing at me, then over at the other mages in our company. “Do you think Daylen and Neria will be alright with going back to the Circle? I mean, we’re not leaving anyone there, but still. I got the impression that they didn’t exactly leave on good terms. And what about Morrigan? I doubt she’ll be excited to go there.”

“Maybe not,” Theron agreed, “but we don’t have another choice. Capella was right about Daylen and Neria’s fighting skills, at least, and Darrien isn’t much better. We can’t really have untrained people alone. If they don’t want to go to the Circle proper, they can stay at the lake.” He paused, then looked at me. “It may be better for you to stay there, when we go. They might not trust an elven mage.”

I shifted and tugged on my robes. “Maybe not.” Taking a deep breath, I shook my head. “I have… an uneasy feeling about the Circle, though. I’m afraid there will be something happening there, and that you’ll want all the help you can get.”

Theron’s eyes narrowed slightly; he said nothing more. “Well,” Alistair declared, “that’s that, then. First to the Circle, then to Redcliffe, then the Brecilian Forest, and lastly to Orzammar. It’s not the most direct route, but if we can move quickly, we’ll have time.”

“We’ll head out at first light.” Theron spread the word. I avoided him, training my magic and learning to work with Littlefoot until I was exhausted and could simply collapse into my bedroll; he had too many questions in his eyes and on his lips. I could not answer them.

\--

Theron watched me even more closely than Capella watched anyone in the following days. With a group now ten strong (thirteen with the mabari), moving was a bit slower. And since we had three mages who barely knew how to fight and one new warrior, we tended to make camp earlier than might have otherwise happened so that some training could happen.

I went to bed exhausted each night, but thankful that I could avoid the inevitable questions Theron would have.

Until the third night, anyways.

I was as exhausted as ever when I fumbled into my bedroll, and was asleep before my head hit the pillow, but terror soon wrapped its claws around me and scratched at my mind. I saw flashes of the archdemon—teeth sharp like overgrown needles, its presence even in my nightmare so substantial that I dared not breathe.

It stared right at me, and its mace-like tail flicked behind it. I woke up from my own screams.

Theron, in his bedroll beside mine, thrashed wildly before he found a crouched position. He was panting hard, and in the darkness I could not see him. My heart continued to threaten escape from my chest, beating so hard, so fast that it was painful. I whimpered. Littlefoot, who had taken to sleeping at my feet, nosed my face and licked my cheek.

“Vir’era?” Theron asked, after a moment. The sound that came from my throat was pitiful. Littlefoot pressed close. There was the sound of rustling outside the tent, murmured voices.

Alistair’s voice sounded above the rest. “It was the archdemon,” he said. “I guess Duncan didn’t really get to say. I’ll… I’ll try to explain.”

I heard more movement, and Theron undid the ties to our tent, starting to leave when he looked back. I didn’t move. I could barely keep ahold of myself, and I was worried—I was a mage. I needed to keep some semblance of control. I swallowed and shook my head, curling up a bit, hugging Littlefoot. “…Go. I can hear in here.”

He didn’t move for a moment, but then he was gone. He didn’t go far, though; I could see his shadow clear against the tent’s cloth. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my nose to Littlefoot’s short, coarse fur. He smelled terrible. I took a deep breath.

Everyone had had the same nightmare. Not everyone was affected the same way, and Alistair tried to explain why, but it was clear that he wasn’t really certain himself. I could imagine him making aborted half-gestures and frowning as he worked to explain what little he did know. I concentrated on that, on the sound of his voice, on my breathing, on the feel of Littlefoot’s warmth and fur. I was panicking, and I knew it.

I started to calm down by the end of Alistair’s explanation and the end of the other’s quiet questions or confused comments. But then, as people returned to their tents, after Theron had come back into ours, Alistair came to us. To me, technically.

“Vir’era?” he asked. “Are… are you alright? I thought it was you who was screaming, but…”

I just stared at his shadow, then looked at Theron. He seemed to understand. “He’s fine,” he answered. “A bit shocked, but fine.”

Alistair’s shadow shifted. “I’d like to hear it from Vir’era, if you don’t mind.”

I clenched my jaw and sighed. Theron took a breath, but I cut him off from retorting by undoing one of the ties and peeking out at Alistair. He immediately crouched down to see more eye-to-eye, and he was frowning. “Are you alright?” he asked. His voice was soft, like a kitten’s paw.

I swallowed, then started to shake my head, then shrugged. I stared at the ground. My heart was starting to speed up again, and it would only be worse if I met his gaze. I might try to tell him everything, and I couldn’t tell him anything. He shifted, and his feet pushed the dirt around with the movement. “You can talk to me, you know. I won’t judge.”

I nodded, and he sighed. “Yeah, I understand.” I don’t think he really knew what to say. Neither did I, for that matter. “I… Would like to be your friend, though, Vir’era. You don’t have to just stick with Theron, you know.”

Littlefoot huffed and stuck his head through the flap to give Alistair the evil eye. I laughed, though it sounded like a few small puffs of air more than anything. Alistair must have seen him, because that sunshine laugh graced my ears soon. “Alright, Theron and Littlefoot, then. The point is that you’re definitely not alone.”

I nodded, petting Littlefoot’s head. His fur looked so dark in the firelight, and my hand so pale against it. Milk over coffee. Did coffee exist in Ferelden?

Alistair shifted again, and stood. “Talk to me sometime, alright? About anything. Even cheese.”

I snickered half-heartedly, and pulled back into the tent as he walked away. Littlefoot snuffled at me, nosing my face. I laid down and pulled him close. Theron used a careful hand to pet the mabari. “We’ll be alright,” he whispered. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“I hope you’re right.” There was silence for a moment, and I thought Theron had fallen asleep again. I was nearly there myself.

“Vir’era.” His voice was quiet, tentative, feeling its way cautiously forward. “You know things, don’t you?”

I huffed. “I know lots of stuff. I can cook and do magic.” I could nearly hear him rolling his eyes.

“You know what I mean, lethallin.” I sighed.

“Yes.” I did not speak for a long moment. Theron waited. “I’m not from the Brecilian forest.” I kept my voice low, so that if anyone were awake still, they would only hear murmurs, not words. “I… Theron, you must believe me, I don’t know how I came here.”

He took a deep breath. “So you didn’t come from the mirror?”

“I don’t know.” I smoothed my hand along Littlefoot’s side. He laid still for me, like he knew I was taking comfort in his presence. “I’m not even from Ferelden or Thedas. I don’t know how to describe it to you, and I’m sorry for that. But I… I know what will happen here. What is happening here. What can happen, what may not.”

“How?” I could barely hear his voice. It sounded like a small, frightened child’s in that moment. “How can you know what is to come? That’s—it’s impossible. Only the gods can know.” His voice wavered.

“I can’t explain it,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know anything in exacts, and I know only possibilities. But I know that Loghain knows that some Grey Wardens have survived; I know that Arl Howe will send an Antivan Crow after us. I know that Queen Anora does not believe the lies her father is spreading. I know Arl Eamon is sick, that his son is a mage, and that the Circle of Magi is in turmoil. Orzammar has no king. Zathrian’s clan is suffering a curse.

“There is more,” I said, pausing, “so much more, but… That is what I know about right now, about the immediate future. That is what is most important for us, what we must know to stop the Blight.”

“How can you say we must go to Redcliffe before we find the Dalish, then?” he asked. “Sickness can be healed and mages are not evil. Is a curse not more important?”

I pushed myself up so that I could look over Littlefoot towards Theron. I felt a few tears struggle past my eyelids and slither down my face. “The curse is reversible. The sickness is not, and it is fatal. Connor has summoned a demon out of fear. The Circle of Magi is overrun by blood mages and abominations, and they will all surely die if we do not help. Redcliffe, too.”

Theron looked at me; I could just make out the barest of his features. He was frowning, eyebrows pulled low and lips curved unhappily. “I hope you’re right, but I hope you are wrong.” He pressed a hand to his face and pulled it down. “Can the mages help with the demon?”

“Yes.” I glanced to the tent’s flaps, then laid myself back down, holding Littlefoot firmly for my own sake. “We should sleep. We have much traveling to do, and even more work.”

\--

Lake Calenhad smelled better than I had half expected. Less of a rotting-fish-left-too-long-in-the-sun, more of a generic fish smell. I was grateful. Capella immediately set about organizing with Theron about what to do; they sent Daylen and Neria to ask the ferryman about the Circle, upon noticing his absence from his post, and had Alistair and Darrien go into the tavern and inn. Sten and Castor spoke with the beggar near the site of Sten’s ambush. The rest of us went down by the docks.

“If you’re trying to get to the Circle, you’ll have to come back later,” the Templar standing there declared when we drew near.

Theron’s eyes darted to me just slow enough for me to notice, but quick enough that Capella did not catch on. “Why is that?” Capella asked, casually.

“I’ve been ordered not to let anyone pass,” he replied, bouncing slightly with the statement. “It’s an order from Knight-Commander Greagoir.”

“I’m afraid we must get to the Circle.” Capella was persistent. “We have urgent business there, and I doubt your commander would be pleased to hear that you’ve given me trouble.”

This made the Templar—what was his name?—pause. “I, uh, well… No! I've one job, and one job only, and by the Maker's shiny gold cutlery, I will do it!”

Theron crossed his arms. “He would be expecting us. He should be, if he has any sense.”

The Templar shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then sighed. “Yeah, alright, fine. Let’s go, then.”

“No,” Capella said, examining her fingernails. “We’ve got some others who are accompanying us.”

“Maker’s breath!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “Just how many of you are there?” His eyes glanced over the small group already around him, lingering on Morrigan as though he knew she was an apostate, then lingering again on me. I blinked, eyes wide, attempting to be the picture of innocence.

Either it worked or he was more lyrium-addled than the game had made him out to be, because he didn’t give me more than that pause. “I’ll need help rowing if there’s really so many,” he muttered, scuffing one foot distractedly against the wood of the dock.

Capella hummed in response, and we waited for the others to join us. Castor and Sten came first; Sten looked like a storm on the horizon, lightning crackling just close enough to be frightening. Alistair and Darrien were next, and shook their heads as they approached, indicating that the tavern had brought nothing of interest to light. Daylen and Neria chatted with Kestor the ferryman for some minutes more before finally wandering their way down to the docks.

“Whatever’s going on in there,” Daylen said, staring at the tall tower on the island in the lake, “it’s bad.” He pursed his lips and was one of the first in the boat. The Templar substitute ferryman had to keep reminding him as we rowed over to ‘slow down, you’re turning the boat!’

Even when we drew close to the Circle, with its intimidating height and isolation, Capella did not lose a fraction of her composure. Morrigan grew increasingly agitated, frowning up at the structure and sneering. Neria and Daylen murmured to each other and hardly took their eyes off what had for so long been their home. Alistair didn’t dare look at it.

The doors were less ornate than I expected—or maybe more. I couldn’t quite decide if I’d expected something grand and foreboding or a simple pair of thick wooden slabs; these doors were distinctly neither. They opened with a satisfyingly loud clamor, though, and all the attention was brought to our party.

“Carroll!” That voice, the irritation and grating tone, could only belong to Knight-Commander Greagoir. “I thought I told you no one was to come over!”

“Y-you did, ser, but they said they had, ah, urgent business with you! They said you’d be expecting them, ser.” Carroll, the Templar, cowered back a half step, looking determinedly at the space just above Greagoir’s head. Greagoir made a disgusted noise and turned his furrowed brows to face us.

“Whatever business you have, it can wait. The Circle is in no position to help anyone right now.” He paced further into the entrance. Capella followed him.

“We are Grey Wardens,” she declared.

“Grey Wardens?” Greagoir turned on his heel, his eyebrows lifted up now. “I thought they’d all died at Ostagar—but if you’re here…” He sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. “Maker preserve us.” The brief prayer sounded more like a curse. “Then there is a Blight, I suppose, and you’re here because of the treaties.”

Capella nodded. Castor stood beside her, and I saw Greagoir take a moment to simply comprehend the pair—they looked so much alike, and it was never more obvious than when they stood adjacent, so I could not blame him.

“I’m afraid the Circle really is indisposed at the moment,” Greagoir appeased, speaking slower than before. “There was an uprising by a group of maleficarum, and they have taken the whole tower. There are abominations everywhere; we are only waiting for the Right of Annulment to return from Denerim.”

“No!” Neria exclaimed, coming forward. “There must be another way! First Enchanter Irving—”

“Is probably dead,” Greagoir interrupted. He stared at her, then looked at Daylen behind her. “I must say, I didn’t think I’d be seeing you two again.”

Daylen’s nose twitched, and Neria huffed. “We can go in and save them. Anyone who’s still alive—there have to be some people left still.”

“I’ve already sent for the Right of Annulment.” Greagoir crossed his arms. “Anything left alive in there is not a person anymore.”

Theron seemed like he was inclined to agree; I was reminded of how the Dalish rarely kept more than two mages in a clan, and never more than three. What did they do when there were more? Did he truly think the mages of the Circle must all be as good as dead?

Well, I knew better. “Ser,” I said, stepping forward. Greagoir’s eyes turned to me, and his brows went low as his face wrinkled in a frown. He had to know I was a mage. I held my hands up instinctively, my heartbeat pounding in my fingertips. “Let us go in. We—we can save anyone who’s still—still alive.” I swallowed, took a breath. “I’m sure y-your First Enchanter could still be safe, a-and we can check!”

“Anything that goes in those doors,” Greagoir said, pointing emphatically towards the inner doors that led to the rest of the Circle Tower, “is not coming back out unless I hear First Enchanter Irving’s voice telling me it is safe. If you go in, you will not return without him. Do I make myself clear?”

Somehow, that seemed a more unusual request when it was made by one living, breathing person to another than by a character to a player. “And if the First Enchanter is dead, but others survive?” Capella asked, clearly noticing the same thing.

Greagoir’s frustration and fury centered on her. She did not blink. “Then, when the Right of Annulment arrives, I will wipe out everything in the tower.”

“He’s alive,” I said. Theron tilted his head ever so slightly and I nodded.

“We accept the terms of this arrangement,” he declared.

Time to face the horrors.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love cullen and i'm not sorry

In person, Wynne looked so much older than she had in Origins. Maybe it was because of the graphics of Origins having only limited capabilities; maybe it was simply that everything seemed wearier when tangible. Even the stone floor seemed tired.

“So Greagoir has sent for the Right of Annulment,” Wynne murmured, and looked to the young children that were huddled near Petra. “We must stop him. He’s not an unreasonable man; I’m sure if he knew some of us still lived…”

Theron shook his head. “I am sorry, but he was quite insistent. We cannot leave without this First Enchanter.”

She stared at Theron, looking at his vallaslin and his pointed ears, then nodded. “Yes, you’re right. He can be so stubborn.” She walked over to her barrier. “I can take this down, and we can go up to find Irving.” The barrier wavered slightly, as if acknowledging her plan.

“What about the children?” Neria asked. “We can’t leave them unprotected!”

“Neria’s right.” Daylen paced. “Maybe you should stay here, Wynne, and put the barrier back up—we can—”

“No,” Wynne interrupted. “I will help. I don’t know that I can put the barrier back when I take it down, anyways. I’m surprised I managed to keep it up this long…” She shook her head. “If you want to delegate some of your number to stay back as extra protection, then so be it, but I will not stand by while maleficarum destroy our Circle!”

Daylen frowned, stepping forwards to retort, but Theron put his hands up between them both. “Wynne has a point, Daylen,” he said, voice smooth and soothing. “I do not anticipate much being of particular threat behind us, if we manage a full and unrelenting sweep, but it would be a good idea to leave someone, at least, to protect the children.” He looked to Petra and the other enchanter. “Not that I expect they would need too much help.”

“I’ll stay,” Darrien offered. “I’m still training, after all, and magic…” He shrugged. “Probably easier for someone else to deal with. I’ll train a bit here.”

“I have no weapons. I shall remain as well.” Sten stepped back, then looked to Darrien. “I can aid with your training.” Darrien nodded, but only after a moment.

“We’ll leave the dogs with them, too,” Capella decided. Stellaluna and Dracula complied easily, but Littlefoot whined and pressed against my legs.

Castor raised an eyebrow. “Either he doesn’t like listening to Capella at all, or he just doesn’t want to leave Vir’era.”

I wondered if mabari could sense anxiety, and if Littlefoot had noticed my slowly deteriorating mental state. He certainly was a stabilizing force for me, but… “He can come,” Theron said, waving a hand. I let out my breath.

“I’ll stay, too.” Leliana abruptly sat on the ground. “I don’t want to see what’s behind those doors, and I can keep the children calm, yes? I’ve got some lovely stories.” The children looked excited to hear stories from someone so apparently exotic—I didn’t think they’d heard many Orlesian accents in their time.

“Well, I’m going.” Morrigan flipped some hair from her face. “I want to see what these Circles are like for myself, and this is a perfect opportunity.”

“This isn’t exactly a shining example,” Wynne stated. Morrigan just shrugged.

“It should be a simple enough task to differentiate what is commonplace from what is unusual,” she said. Wynne either conceded the point, or simply did not wish to argue.

Castor and Capella had some silent talk, but soon Castor sat beside Leliana and began to ask her for some specific stories—“You were a bard, right? I bet you know some wonderful tales, and I could listen to you talk for hours. Do you have any about… Flemeth?” I thought I saw him smirk at Morrigan, but she didn’t react.

Darrien rolled his eyes, walking over to a more empty area to practice. Sten followed, and immediately started correcting Darrien’s stance. The group headed deeper in had been decided: Theron, Alistair, Morrigan, Capella, Daylen, Neria, Littlefoot, myself, and Wynne. More than double what was ever allowed in the game, but I was grateful. I couldn’t let them go without me, not with what I knew, but I would have hated to be in a less capable group.

I was alright being the weakest member—especially since, if reality was anything like the game, Wynne was an adept spirit healer. She could ensure I survived this, at least.

We sliced our way through abominations and demons. There were so many… and so many bodies, too. Blood-scent was a miasma that followed us. Wynne quietly mourned the mages lost to abominations, but we were merciless. We had to be. Theron, in particular, didn’t even pause when killing abominations, not like he did when we ran across mages who still looked human, even if they were blood mages.

Daylen was shaking, his eyes huge and nostrils flared. Wynne tried to heal him once, but he snarled something about being fine and stalked to the back of the group. Neria said nothing, but her knuckles had gone white as she gripped her staff.

For this moment, if nothing else, I felt glad that the Circle’s Tower had been built rather like a spiral—and the destruction of various doors or bookshelves forced us to treat it as a hard truth. We could ensure that no abominations, no demons, no anything made it past us. Our companions would be safe, the children would be safe.

But the smell. Creators curse it all; the smell of abominations was not something I had anticipated. It was worse than the miasma of blood, worse than the sheer smell of death. Sulfurous at the edges, almost tantalizing despite its unpleasantness, and pure rot at the center. Rot like dead skunk, hit by a car and left on the road, in the sun, smelled by everyone who had the misfortune of drawing near, a warning, a threat, a promise.

It tore at me, slithered into my airway and snuck onto my tongue; it pulled behind my eyes, making them wet. I heaved a few times as we made our way, ever cautious. Littlefoot agreed, whining when abominations drew near, and I felt so sorry for him. However strong the stench was to me, it must have been worse for him.

I had never been good at remembering just how many floors were in the Tower, or what was on which floor. I knew only that at the top was the Harrowing Chamber, where Uldred was forcing blood magic on his fellow mages and where Cullen and the other Templars had been tortured. They would be a terrible battle, certainly, but the true terror—the thing I dreaded most—laid in wait the floor below them.

The Sloth Demon’s effect was too strong for any of us to even hope to resist. All I could do was try not to fall on my head, unable to even warn my friends of his imminent trickery, and then the stone of the Circle was gone.

 

I awoke at home. It had to be home. I stretched, glancing around at the posters on the walls. I guess I was alone; only the string lights we’d put up were on, and only the one lock was fastened on the door. I heard a soft sound, an inquisitive little sound, and let out a small cry of delight.

Zelda, who had been apparently sleeping on my lap, just complained again, but stood and stretched herself over my legs. I was in the living room, I think, but then—oh, this wasn’t right. I couldn’t place just what was wrong, not immediately, but I knew something was wrong.

Zelda chirruped at me, distracting me from whatever I was seeking, and I held her close. I pressed my nose to her fur, and took a deep breath.

Rot.

I panicked. I tossed the not-Zelda away from me, towards what should have been the TV, and the illusion broke, but not-Zelda still looked like my cat, even as she hissed and bristled at me. I couldn’t fight her. I wouldn’t. I cried.

It didn’t last long, though; soon, I heard a weird portal-sound—the kind they always put in video games that has no description other than portal-sound—and then Theron shot an arrow past my head. I heard a yowl, but I didn’t look. I just sobbed.

“Demons,” I told him, sniffing and hiding my face somewhat in my robe as he helped me up. “I hate demons.”

He said something, but I didn’t catch it. The Fade dissolved around me, taking Theron with it. This time, when I came to see my surroundings again, though, I knew exactly where I was, and I quivered. Tears continued to slip through my desperate guard; I decided I no longer cared enough to hide them.

My companions were with me, and the Sloth Demon was surrounded. I had not had to wander the maze of the Fade, collecting shapeshifting abilities and unlocking my friends from their nightmares; I had been one of those locked in a nightmare. Theron had saved me. Perhaps he was the only one to go about defeating the demon’s underlings and their goons.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t let the Sloth Demon start his speech, his taunts and promises of a “better life.” I yelled, a formless howl filled with my fear, and I attacked with all my might. It wasn’t very impressive; I still had only a surface knowledge of exactly how my magic worked, and though I could get it to do generally what I wanted, it was never exact.

But it was enough, because soon I felt my fellow mages’ power join mine. We sent the purest form of energy towards the demon: electricity. Blue-white lightning seared Sloth’s skin as it struck. Capella and Theron fired rapidly, arrow after arrow answering the demon’s swipes. Littlefoot managed to slip behind him, perhaps underestimated by virtue of being a dog, and leapt onto the demon’s back, teeth sinking into singed and split flesh.

It took more to kill this one demon than it had to kill all the abominations leading up to it. How much would it take to kill Uldred? My knees collapsed under me as Daylen’s furious fire consumed the demon, and I woke up to the stone of the Circle.

Wynne, somehow, was the first to stand, and she started immediately asking after everyone’s health. “Was anyone injured? Do you need healing?”

It turned out that Daylen had suffered a painful cut from his fall to the floor as Sloth’s magic put us to sleep, but everyone else was fine. Theron approached the demon’s physical body and sneered at it. Something about the sneer pulled at his vallaslin, making the disgust only more prominent.

Capella picked up the Litany of Andralla from Niall’s body. “Niall said this… Litany would protect against further blood magic,” she said.

“The Litany of Andralla?” Wynne asked. “Ah, thank goodness. I had been worried it was destroyed, like so much else has been.” She set her shoulders and looked towards the stairs that would lead to our ultimate destination—the Harrowing Chamber. “Well, let’s continue on, then, if no one needs more healing?”

I needed healing, but not the kind Wynne could provide. I couldn’t stop crying. I’d hoped—for a minute, I had been back home. Maybe if I had been given warning, given a choice, I would have given it all up to come here, to be something more, but I… My poor Zelda. I hoped she was okay, even if I could not be there with her.

Theron’s hand on my shoulder startled me into the air, a shriek dying on the tip of my tongue as I realized who it was. He looked surprised, but then his eyebrows sank and his lips tilted down. “What did you see?” he asked, quietly, coaxing me to follow at the back of the pack with a steady hand on my back.

“Home,” I whispered. I couldn’t say more. Littlefoot whined and pushed his nose against my hand. I took a shuddery breath, and we started to ascend the staircase. Neria kept glancing back at us, biting her lip. Alistair noticed her glances, and soon he was standing near me, too.

I shrank into myself. I hated this, so much—such an audience, people who had known worse hardships, who had not been raised with the safety I had—and as we breached the top of the stairs, my audience grew by one.

Seeing Cullen behind a glowing barrier, kneeling with his sword and praying if only to keep himself sane where his fellows had fallen, those same men and women whose bodies laid around him… It was the final blow to my mental fortitude. It felt like a trebuchet had been launched into my diaphragm, pushed through my chest and down, down, down. I choked, and fell to my knees a few feet from his barrier. I wrapped my arms desperately around Littlefoot, and my staff clattered away from me.

The sound brought Cullen to his feet, sword at the ready, and he stared in confusion, in disbelief at our mismatched group. He saw Wynne, then Daylen, and then his eyes lingered on Neria before he took in everyone else. I stared at him in return, though my vision was blurred by tears.

“Neria… Daylen… No! It can’t be,” Cullen said, after a moment, looking again to the ex-Circle mages. “You were taken to be Grey Wardens, and they all died at Ostagar.” His face crumpled in distress. “Begone, demons! Leave! I—I will not—”

He closed his eyes and knelt again. He chanted quietly.

“The barrier is magical in nature,” Wynne said. “And I think it is all that is keeping him in there. I believe it was made by blood magic…”

“Still here?” Cullen asked, looking up. “But—but that’s always worked before—I close my eyes, and they’re gone. You can’t be real. A dream, a dream of familiar faces…”

The words made me laugh, a startled sound, a bitter sound. “This isn’t a dream,” I whispered when everyone’s eyes sat on me. “I wish it were.”

“Not all the Grey Wardens died—Theron and Alistair and Capella and Vir’era are also Grey Wardens. We’re here to help, Cullen,” Neria said, pressing forward so she was only out of his reach because of the barrier.

“Help?” he echoed. His face twisted as he looked at her, teeth baring themselves. “Mages! This is because of mages! They turned to blood magic—they tortured us! They killed the other Templars! I am the only one left!” He turned to Capella beseechingly. “You cannot allow them to live! You’re a Grey Warden, right? You protect, too. You understand. They must be struck down.”

“He’s a cheery one.” How Morrigan could remain so glib astounded me.

“We are here to help,” Capella restated. “Make no mistake of that. Your Knight-Commander, Greagoir, he sent us to find First Enchanter Irving.”

“The first enchanter?” Cullen shuddered, and glanced briefly to the door nearby. He shook his head. “He’s in the Harrowing Chamber. They all are, but, Maker, the sounds coming from there… I do not think any of them survived, and any that do have become abominations. They must be destroyed.”

His ravings pressed against my chest, and I found it hard to breathe, even as everyone else tried to calm him down, tried to make him see reason. I knew that he could not, not now. He had been tortured for—for who knows how long. Days, maybe. How he had even the strength to stand was beyond me.

I buried my face in Littlefoot’s neck, trying desperately to ground myself. Uldred was in the Harrowing Chamber, was going to kill everyone to get his way—no, we could defeat him—and then save Redcliffe, and save Zathrian’s clan—oh, god the Broodmother, I couldn’t—

“Vir’era.” I peeked up, and Theron was crouched beside me. “We need to continue.”

“I can’t. I—I just can’t. Theron, please.” Theron nodded and sighed, then looked at the floor. “I—I can just stay here. I’ll be okay, right? There’s not any others left except in there and—and you can keep them f-from getting out, right?”

Theron looked over at Cullen suspiciously, and when I followed his gaze, I saw that the Templar wasn’t even trying to hide his stare. He was examining us, the Dalish elves with the vallaslin. He saw my staff on the floor a few feet from me. He knew very well that I was a mage.

“It might not be wise,” Capella warned.

Littlefoot barked quietly, and Alistair, apparently having been silently watching these proceedings, gave his two cents. “While I don’t think Cullen will hurt Vir’era, I’m sure Littlefoot here will make sure our friend is alright.” Littlefoot barked again.

“The mutt is imprinted on him.” Morrigan’s words were as interested as if she were speaking of paint drying. “I doubt Vir’era is in any danger from a half-crazed Templar.”

Cullen didn’t take the implications of Morrigan’s words well, but he did look directly at Theron, eyes steely and face set. “Your friend has not been corrupted by the blood mages. I have no quarrel with him. He is an innocent in this, and a Grey Warden.”

That was that, then. I held back my whines as the group trooped into the Harrowing Chamber, and I buried my face once more in Littlefoot’s neck. He pressed against me in return, a quiet support. I counted my breathing, and tried not to listen as sounds of battle resounded into the small entryway of the Chamber.

In, 2, 3, 4, hold, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

A scream. Who was it? Was it a friend? Foe? What was happening? Would I die? Heartbeat increasing, my hands were shaking—I was crying again. Had I even stopped?

In, 2, 3, 4, hold, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

Stop. Shhh. Ignore the sound of electricity hitting stone, fizzling out. Ignore the ice that slammed through the door. Shhh. Shhh. They’d be okay. They had to be okay. This isn’t how things ended; the Blight would be stopped in less than a year. It is 9:30 Dragon. It is 9:30 Dragon. It is 9:30 Dragon.

In, 2, 3, 4, hold, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

Lothering was burning by now, torn apart by darkspawn—oh, gods, why? So much chaos would come from something so small—so much would be stopped, though, the boiling point in Thedas was drawing ever nearer. The citizens were just the frogs around whom it was heating up; they didn’t know, couldn’t know, it took outsiders, it took Anders, it took red lyrium, death, destruction, tangible evidence, and, god, Hawke must be leaving now, must be losing a sibling and meeting Flemeth—

In, 2, 3, 4, hold, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

Flemeth! Would we kill her this time? Would we revisit her hut at all? Was it even safe? She was so powerful, too powerful, we could not defeat her! (But of course we couldn’t; that’s not how this story goes, not how it would ever, could ever go…)

In, 2, 3, 4, hold, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

Anders. Oh, god, Anders. Where was he now? He had left before Uldred did any of this—was he in danger of darkspawn? He had to live; that is what the games dictated. But what if—so much had changed already, seven fucking Wardens—and my presence, on top of that…

In, 2, 3, 4, hold, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

“Come no closer!”

I jerked my head up, no closer to being calm than when my friends had entered the Harrowing Chamber. How long had it been? They were covered in blood, I noticed, despite being primarily ranged fighters. Neria and Daylen stood on either side of First Enchanter Irving. He was ancient, and how he remained upright even with their help was a mystery. A few of the other circle mages trailed after them; Wynne helped one to walk. They looked… harrowed.

Ha.

“Stand down, Cullen,” the First Enchanter said. His voice creaked like an old wooden floor, worn by time and use.

Cullen stood in front of me, I noticed, but his back was to me, and he had his sword pointed at the group. “I will allow no one affected by the blood magic to pass or to infect anyone else!”

“Cullen…” Neria’s voice was actually frightened. His face must have been terrifying.

Theron started to move around, looking at me, then back at Cullen, but the Templar quickly turned his sword on the hunter. “You will not approach him! I don't know if you’re infected, but I know he is innocent! It—it is my sworn duty to protect the innocent.”

And that was the most unexpected thing I’d heard since I entered Thedas. It was so unexpected, that I momentarily jolted back into a steady view of the world. “Cullen,” I tried, but my voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. “Cullen, they’re—they’re safe, I’m sure of it.”

“You can’t be sure of anything with blood magic,” Cullen said, not even turning to look at me. “I do not know how it works with the Dalish, but we Templars are taught about its dangers. I cannot let them pass. I cannot let them harm you, too, mage or not. It is my duty.”

I stared at his back. He was supposed to blame all mages for Uldred’s works. Or, at least, that’s what I’d assumed—true, he didn’t seem to blame those in Kirkwall, but he was always so ready to see blood magic, always so ready to cull it, even if it meant some innocents were caught as well. Was the simple fact that I had not entered the Harrowing Chamber with Uldred really so great a game-changer? (Ha.)

Alistair raised his hands placatingly, looking past Cullen to give me a questioning look. I did not know how to respond. I just stared and blinked back. “Cullen,” Alistair started. “I was a Templar, too, you know, before I became a Grey Warden. Well, almost a Templar. In training. I know enough, anyways, and with the Litany of Andralla and my Templar abilities combined, I promise that we stopped any blood magic before it could affect any of us.”

Cullen kept his sword trained on Alistair the whole time, and Alistair didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at the sword. He was silent a long moment. “…I will take you to Knight-Commander Greagoir.”

It was the best concession we would get, I supposed. But he still didn’t allow any of my friends too close to me, and that ripped at my soul like sandpaper on a plastic bag. I took my staff and used it to push myself up, to keep my balance, but I didn’t know how I would get down without help. I just wanted any of them—Theron or Alistair or Morrigan, if she was willing—to come to me, to help me.

But Cullen wouldn’t let them.

However, he was also not entirely unaware of my predicament. He had Irving lead the way (with Daylen and Neria), and he stalked behind everyone, sword still drawn. I dared to look at his face, and his jaw was clenched. He noticed my glance, and saw me lagging behind, barely keeping myself together, and he paused.

He seemed conflicted, and the quick look that he chanced to the front of the line was upset. “…Let me carry you,” he offered, after a moment, and I froze, hands tight on my staff. He shifted, armor clunking lightly. “I cannot let them too close to you, but you obviously are in no state to walk. I… I have enough strength in me to carry you, I think.”

Theron, who was only just in front of us, pursed his lips as his eyes passed from Cullen, to me, and back. His frown brought the lines of his vallaslin into angry shapes, but he did not say anything. Instead, he deliberately met my eyes, and inclined his head slowly, slightly towards Cullen. The question was evident: Can we trust him?

I took a deep, shuddering breath. Or, tried to. It was shallower than it should have been. I nodded, an answer for both of them, and bowed my head. I couldn’t look them in the eye, couldn’t even look at their faces. This was humiliating. I hadn’t even fought Uldred. I wasn’t even injured. How the fuck was I supposed to help when I could so easily be turned to this?

Cullen carried me bridal-style down the tower. I felt the stares of everyone in the tower, of the statues and the bodies as well as my friends. I squeezed my eyes shut. I forgot about my breathing. His armor was uncomfortable as he held me. I thought the Templar sigil would burn through my robes, into my skin. I was a mage, after all. So many would call me anything but innocent for that alone.

But it was only decoration. When we reached the ground floor, Cullen did eventually release me, and after the Knight-Commander’s ordered it, allowed me to return to my friends. Neria pulled me close. I let myself hide my face in her shoulder, comforted ever so slightly in Littlefoot’s warm body pressing against my legs.

Theron and Capella dealt with securing the mages’ help against the Blight. I listened to their voices, quietly trying to pretend nothing else was happening. “You have done us a great service,” First Enchanter Irving said. His voice was as wrinkled as he was. It made me think of old books and patchouli.

“We need your help,” Theron said. “We are Grey Wardens, as we have told this Knight-Commander.”

“Ahh…” Irving sighed. “Then, you are here about the treaties. There are few of us left, but we shall honor this treaty. It is the least we can do, I think, to repay you.”

“Thank you, First Enchanter.” Capella’s voice was always so smooth. Like velvet, or maybe silk. “I am truly sorry that so much death happened before we could intervene, and that we cannot stay and continue to help, but there is a Blight. We must gather what forces we can, and prepare to face an archdemon. I’m sure you understand.”

“Indeed. I wish you luck, my friends. I shall send with you an emissary. If I may, though… Where do you plan to go next?”

Alistair answered this time. “Redcliffe. I know the arl there, and even if we don’t have treaties, we’ve heard some… disturbing rumors.”

I stopped breathing. Oh god, Redcliffe. The dead rising from the waters, Connor’s possession—if we wanted to save him, to keep as many alive as we could, we would need the mages to come with us, to save him of his possession. But no one else knew that. I was the only one. I had to—I was the only one who could tell the First Enchanter that we needed his help.

I lifted my head. Neria made a questioning sound, and I tried to keep myself steady as I slipped from her arms over towards Irving. He raised his eyebrows and blinked as I approached, my appearance doubtlessly as fragile as I felt. Cullen, on the other side of the Knight-Commander, didn’t hide his stare at me.

“Um, F-first Enchanter, I’m—I’m sorry, but. I have…” Theron’s head could hardly have moved faster when he heard my voice. “Redcliffe,” I tried again. “It’s not—there’s something at work there that is beyond the rumors we’ve heard, I’m sure of it. I believe we will need your help.”

The First Enchanter did not answer me, just frowning and watching and waiting. He did not believe me. I—he had to. I needed him to. I looked at Theron, and I saw him clench his jaw. He knew what I meant, and I had told him what we would face there, after all. “Vir’era has a gift,” he informed the First Enchanter, voice strong as ever. “I would trust his word with my life.”

Oh, fuck. No pressure. Ha.

And then all our friends turned to look at me. Right. Because I hadn’t told them yet. And if I had such a gift, I’m sure they’d want to know. Was this really a gift? I was in a fantastical world, living out what I’d only dreamt of. Maybe it was. “This is the first I’ve heard of this gift,” Morrigan drawled.

“It is not something we share lightly,” Theron said. “Our Keeper knew it to be rare. Not even all our clan was aware.”

“Why tell us now?” Alistair asked. Ha, that was rich, coming from him. When we got closer to Redcliffe, he’d be telling us a secret of his own.

“Until now, there was no need to. But I do not think the First Enchanter would simply take the word of a shaken Second without reason.” The tale Theron was spinning, the little lies, were weaving ever tighter. Second to his clan’s Keeper (Marethari, I reminded myself; I would see more of her if I went to Kirkwall), with a mysterious gift that allowed me to—what? See the future? I hoped this fictional background for me did not grow beyond what I could remember.

“I guess that makes sense.” Alistair didn’t sound pleased about it, but he had no room to talk, and I was sure he knew it.

“I disagree,” Morrigan said, “but it seems that matters little.” Her eyes on me were knives. She would not forget this slight. I would have to work to regain any sort of loyalty from her. Perhaps she thought it was by magic that I had my ‘gift.’

“I have never heard of such a gift,” Irving said, slow and deliberate. “I have known many mages with many talents…”

I shifted. “It is… I was not born with it.” Would that be enough?

He hummed, his eyes examining me. I could tell he was particularly curious about my vallaslin; he stared longer at my face, but looked only briefly in my eyes. “Well,” he began, at long last, “I see no harm in sending some of our enchanters with you as a precaution. It may take us time to prepare, though, and if the situation is so dire as you would have me believe, I would rather that you went ahead to do what you can. I shall have Kester bring them after you as soon as they are ready.”

I nodded, stumbling backwards slightly into Neria’s arms as Capella shook Irving’s hand. “That is acceptable,” she said.

I was relieved when we were offered bunks in the Templar quarters for the night. The reason why so many beds were available for us in the Templar quarters was not something I allowed myself to linger on; the smells from beyond the doors to the main tower were strong enough as it stood. Littlefoot could barely fit on the bed with me, but I wasn’t about to sleep alone. We made it work, and Theron slept in the bed immediately next to mine. Neria slept above me.


	5. read it and weep except maybe not it's not sad i don't think

We followed Lake Calenhad southward. Perhaps we could have bartered with Kester or someone else at the docks to get across the lake, but none of the boats were large enough for our entire group, and what little coin we did have would be better spent on food. I dared not speak up further about the reality of the situation at Redcliffe; I didn’t know how bad it would be. Had the events of each disaster started at the same time? Or were they starting at different times? I didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

I tried not to think about it too long.

The first night of our travels, we set up camp on top of a small hill. Bodhan happily helped Theron to set up dinner; apparently, part of the agreement for his continued presence with us had entailed food. I wondered why that had escaped my notice so long, but didn’t bother thinking too long on it.

We sat around the fire, all of us. Wynne had convinced the First Enchanter to let her come along, and since she was a skilled spirit healer—something Morrigan definitively lacked—it was a great relief to have her along. She had her own tent, and I got the feeling no one would be asking that she share unless she offered it.

There were fourteen people now (and three dogs), including myself, Sandal, and Bodhan, which left eleven pairs of suspicious and confused eyes watching me as I walked, as I ate, as I practiced my magic. Eleven people who did not know what to make of my “gift.” Eleven people who wanted answers.

I put down my bowl and took a slow, deep breath. The little, casual conversations that had filled the air around the fire fizzled out, and those eleven pairs of eyes burned on my skin. “…There is something you should all know,” I said, slowly.

“Oh?” Morrigan asked, and flipped her hair. “Is it about this gift? Have you finally decided to tell us more?”

I rubbed my hands on my robes. “I promise, Morrigan, if I knew more about it, I’d tell you. I—I don’t know how I got it. I just have it. And I can’t help everything with it, just some things. Like what I want to say. If you’ll listen.”

“We’re listening,” Alistair promised, leaning forward. The firelight made his hair look more golden than the sun did. He looked more like Cailan. The thought distracted me long enough that I didn’t see Morrigan’s reaction.

“Okay.” I nodded. Zevran Arainai. That’s what they needed to know now. “Um.” I looked at Castor and Capella, sitting side-by-side as always. “Arl Howe knows we all survived.” Capella went perfectly still at Howe’s name, and Castor’s lip twitched. “He’s told Loghain by now, but that’s less important than what he’s done to stop us, I think.”

“I hate that bastard,” Castor spat. Alistair winced.

I didn’t respond to that. “He sent an assassin after us—an Antivan Crow.”

“A Crow?” Leliana asked. “He must really want you dead, then. They are not known for failing.”

Theron scrunched his nose, frowning. “What can a crow do?”

“The Antivan Crows are not birds.” Leliana scooted forward. “They are assassins, like Vir’era mentioned, from Antiva. They are very famous, and for good reason, too.” I was almost concerned about how excited Leliana was about this, but since she was one of the few in-game who was eager to recruit Zevran, I supposed I shouldn't’ be. “Arl How will have paid a great deal of money to hire one.”

“Are we in danger?” Wynne was always rational, at least.

I scrunched my nose, this time, and shrugged, not sure exactly how to explain. “Well, yes, but there’s—the particular Crow who was sent after us, he’s… different. I am sure he will fail to kill us, and I am sure he knows it, though he would tell the arl otherwise.”

“Then why are you telling us this, pray tell?” Morrigan said.

“Because…” I tugged on my robes. “I think he could help us.” I made a show of frowning down. “If we could manage to—to spare his life when he inevitably attempts to ambush us, we could earn a life-debt and his loyalty.”

“Are you sure he’d be loyal?” Alistair asked. “I mean, he is an assassin. Kills for money and all that? Wouldn’t he just kill us later to get the money?”

“That’s not how the Crows work,” Leliana interjected. “I knew a Crow once, briefly. We were working in the same house in Orlais. I learned a great deal from her. The Crow does not get the money themselves, not really; it is the organization that does. Unless this Crow thinks that the organization would forgive his initial failure should he succeed later, I do not think we would have much to worry about there.”

Alistair crossed his arms and Darrien made a disgusted noise. Morrigan shrugged. “It may be worth the effort, if nothing else. We can always kill him later.”

I tried not to wince at that, but from Theron’s raised eyebrow, I failed. “I’m sure he would be valuable,” I said. I couldn’t just let them kill Zevran, now, could I?

Alistair still wasn’t happy about the idea, and I could tell that Daylen and Darrien were with him, but everyone else was at least amenable. Well, no, Wynne was also quite disturbed by it, but she didn’t say anything. Perhaps because it was the first night she was joining us, perhaps because she had some weird faith in my purported magical gift. Either way, it was beneficial to me that she didn’t object.

Later, as we started assigning watches, I managed to wheedle my way onto a watch with Alistair. I needed to talk to him—to let him know about what I knew so that we would be on some kind of equal footing. Not everything, but the part currently pertinent to him: I knew who his father was.

Alistair and I had a middle watch. I hated middle watches; I was so bad at waking up, and worse at sleeping after being awoken, but there was little I could do about this, so I sucked it up. We sat slightly out of the camp, facing downhill toward the main traveler’s road. It was unlikely that anyone would be coming this way at this hour, but still.

“Alistair,” I said, breaking the moonlit silence.

“Hmm?” He looked over at me, relaxed for the moment.

I bit my lip, then spoke. “There is… something more I thought I should tell you. I didn’t want to say it earlier, to respect your privacy, but… Your secret. The one you’re planning on keeping until absolutely necessary? I, uh. Know it already.”

“Ha!” Alistair didn’t look at me, laughing forcedly at the ground. “Oh, that’s a good one. Almost got me. But I’m not spilling! Nope. These lips are sealed.”

I giggled. I couldn’t help it; Alistair was honestly adorable, even in real life. He blinked, looking askance at me. “What?” he asked. “Is there something on my face?” I just giggled some more, trying to remember that this was for real, and I had to get him to realize what I knew, but it wasn’t easy when he was being so dorky. “Oh, Maker, there is, isn’t there? Where is it?” He started wiping his face with his hands.

“N-no!” I said, slowing my giggles. “No, no, I’m sorry—you’re just—” Cute. Yeah, no I wasn’t gonna say that. I blushed, then coughed. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help laughing.”

“Well, I’m glad, I guess,” he said, then grinned at me. “You’ve been looking like you needed that for a while now. Since… well. A while.”

I smiled softly at him and nodded. “Yeah, I think I did. But, I do mean it, Alistair. I know who your father is. Was, I suppose. Maric.” My voice grew softer as I spoke, so the last word was nearly a whisper.

“Oh.” He kicked the ground. “I guess it’s part of your gift or whatever?” I nodded. He pouted. “You—you didn’t tell anyone else, did you?”

“I haven’t, no. Not even Theron,” I said, reassuring him before he could ask. He deflated slightly. “I know it’s sensitive to you.”

I didn’t mention how I knew who his mother was, too. How she wasn’t who he thought she was. That… that was a conversation for a later date. If ever. Would it ever be appropriate to tell him? I rather hoped it would. If I could reunite them, even if only in secret…

“So I guess you know why I know Arl Eamon, then,” Alistair was saying, interrupting my thoughts.

“Yes. He raised you.” I scuffed one foot in the dirt. “A noble man.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, and looked straight at me, shoulders slumped. “I’m gonna have to tell everyone before we get to Redcliffe.”

I nodded.

“Will you—I dunno, help or whatever? If they seem to be taking it bad? Like Morrigan. Ugh.”

I laughed, covering my mouth to keep it quiet so as to not wake the others. “Sure.”

He grinned at me. “You’re a life saver.” Then he screwed up his face. “Probably literally, actually, what with the assassin you mentioned. Do you really think he’ll help us?”

“If he doesn’t,” I said, “you can blame it all on me.” He whistled lowly, but nodded.

“Alrighty then. Trusting the elf with the weird magic gift.” He laughed. “A year ago I would’ve thought that completely insane. Now it just makes sense. Hopefully.”

I smiled at him, then looked out towards the lake. I had almost forgotten that I was an elf. I was usually so aware of it; people in most public places looked at my ears first, my vallaslin second, the rest of me only after. It felt natural, though, to be an elf. Like it made more sense than being human. Maybe I was just going insane the longer I stayed here, though.

I wondered, then, as we lapsed into silence, how long it would be before I started to forget all the details I knew of this world’s future. When would I start to forget how certain events would transpire? My memory had never been particularly good. Perhaps I should write it all down, make note of it somehow so that if I did forget, I could figure it out. I had to make sure everything went well, after all…

I would see about purchasing a notebook or journal when we arrived in Redcliffe. Maybe the general store—which I knew would be empty, the shopkeep hiding—would have what I needed. I could conscript it, maybe? I was a Grey Warden, and it was a Blight, and the things I would write would be of use in the case of my death.

May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent. The errant thought almost startled me.

 

We arrived in Redcliffe three days later. It was already late afternoon. I glanced at the sky as we drew close, trying to gauge how long we had until nightfall. Not long enough, perhaps. We’d have to make do.

As we passed the local farms (all so quiet, so empty) and approached the city’s gates, I kept looking over at Alistair. He grew more and more fidgety as we moved, and once the gates were in view, he stopped. “Hey, can we stop for a moment? I need to tell you all… something I should, um, probably have told you earlier.”

Morrigan huffed. “Can this not wait until we are, perhaps, in the city?”

“Uh, well…” Alistair shifted. “No?”

She rolled her eyes. “Get on with it, then.”

“Don’t mind her,” Capella said. “I’m sure there’s a reason you’ve stopped us.”

“Yeah.” Alistair took a deep breath. “Okay, right. Well, you know how I said I knew the arl, right?” There were various sounds of agreement; Morrigan waved her hand impatiently. “See, the thing is, he kind of… raised me. I know some of you knew that, I told some of you, and I said my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in, right?”

“It’s alright, Alistair,” I said. “Keep going.”

He nodded. “Right. Well, the reason he did that was because… well. Because my father was King Maric.” He shifted his weight, armor clunking lightly. “Which made Cailan my… half-brother, I suppose.”

There was silence for a long moment. Theron tilted his head at me, and I nodded. He sighed, but said nothing, just nodding at Alistair. Morrigan made some quiet derogatory comment. It was Castor who spoke. “So…” he said. “You’re not just a bastard, but a royal bastard?” The smirk on his face was large.

“Ha!” Alistair grinned a bit. “Yes, I guess it does at that. I should use that line more often.” He frowned and looked each of us in the eye then as he continued to speak. “Look, I would have told you, but it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, just a threat to Cailan’s rule. They kept me secret, and I’ve never talked about it to anyone.

“Everyone who knew either hated me or coddled me for it. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I wanted to keep it to myself as long as possible, I guess. I’m sorry.” To his credit, he didn’t hang his head in shame or anything. He didn’t stop shifting, though.

“I think I understand,” Capella said.

“Good! And I guess Vir’era and Theron do, too, I mean, what with all that happened back at the Circle?” He looked at us, eyes bright, and I just smiled and nodded. Theron nodded, too, and Alistair let out a breath. “Good, good. And, I mean, it’s not like I got special treatment for it, anyhow, and I don’t want anything to change. And that’s it, that’s what I wanted to tell you. I just thought you should all know.”

“Anything else you want to air out?” Capella teased, poking him.

He pretended to think a moment, putting a hand to his chin and staring up. “Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no, that’s it. Just the prince thing.”

“How exciting,” she drawled, moving closer. Mythal, I thought, she’s flirting with him. He seemed to be mostly oblivious. I tried not to giggle and bring attention to it all, and noticed Neria doing the same. “A prince.”

“I… ah… not that I want someone to like me for that, but there are worse fates.” He coughed and straightened up. “I’ve no illusions about my status, however. It’s always been made very clear that I’m a commoner, and now a Grey Warden, and in no way in line for the throne.

“And that’s fine by me! No, if there’s an heir to be found, it’s Arl Eamon himself.” Maybe Alistair couldn’t read Capella well enough just yet, but the way she looked towards her brother, making the tiniest of inclinations with her head, and Castor’s response… She had no intention of letting Alistair let go of his father’s status so easily.

Alistair continued, though. “He’s not of royal blood, but he is Cailan’s uncle, and, more importantly, popular with the people.” He frowned, then. “Though, if he’s as sick as we’ve heard… No, I don’t want to think about that. I really don’t.”

He sighed and looked slightly beyond the group. “So, there you have it. Now, can we move on and I’ll pretend you still think I’m some… nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

“You don't really think that, now, do you?” Capella asked.

“Well, no,” he admitted, meeting her eyes. “What I really think is that I was lucky enough to survive with you.”

Before Capella could reply, Morrigan made a gagging sound, and Neria started giggling. Leliana joined her, and soon the whole group had a moment of laughter before we continued on. It was a nice, brief moment. We’d need that light-heartedness if we were to make it through any of the next months or however long it would take. Especially if we wanted to be sane at the end.

Tomas greeted us at the bridge just inside Redcliffe gates, up before the windmill. “Oh, thank goodness!” he exclaimed, running up. “Have you come to save us?”

“Save you?” Alistair asked, eyes darting to me before focusing on the man. “Tomas, what’s going on? We heard Arl Eamon was sick, but that’s all.”

“Then… no one got our messages, did they? Maker preserve us.” Tomas ran a hand down his face, but quickly composed himself. “Please, you have to help. Something’s not right—the dead are coming out of the water and attacking the city at night. I don't think we can last much longer.”

“Maker’s breath!” Alistair swore. “Yes, yes, of course we’ll help! Where’s Arl Eamon and his family? Are they all safe?”

“We haven’t heard from the castle in days. I’ll take you to Bann Teagan; he’ll know what to do.” Tomas spun around and beckoned us after him, eyes wide.

With little other choice, we followed. Alistair looked at me, jerked his head towards the city, and I bit my lip. He continued to stare; only when I nodded, slowly, did he set his face and look ahead.

Redcliffe was completely silent. The lake didn’t make a sound, and only a few people stood about, huddled tightly together with weapons even the simplest person could see were not in good shape. The Chantry loomed over the docks, and as we passed the tavern near it, I wondered if I would be here to see what would come for it in just eleven years’ time. Would I be dead?

My throat tightened at the thought, and I desperately tried to banish it, pressing a hand against Littlefoot’s furry neck. The rough scruff there, bristly and strong, scraped me slowly back to the present. The heavy scent of too many fearful bodies that enclosed us in the Chantry finished the job.

“Bann Teagan,” Tomas said, walking forwards.

“It’s… Tomas, yes?” The Bann replied, turning to face us. He momentarily balked at the sheer size of our group, and looked us over before recomposing himself. “And who are these people with you? They are obviously not simple travelers.”

“No, my lord. They just arrived, and I thought you would want to see them.”

Alistair shifted closer to the front of our group as Teagan responded. “Well done, Tomas. Greetings, friends. My name is Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere, brother to the arl.”

“I remember you, Bann Teagan,” Alistair said, and he smiled slightly. “Though, I was a lot younger last time I saw you… and covered in mud.”

“Covered in mud? Alistair?” Teagan blinked, staring at Alistair for a moment, and then he smiled. “It is you, isn’t it? You’re alive!”

I smiled at the back, tuning out the conversation and concentrating only on the sound of the voices, how they echoed slightly in the reverent quiet of the Chantry. It may have been full of scared people, hiding there for refuge, but it still held some great air that left most people in its walls quiet. I could hear an older woman’s voice telling a story to children; likely a Revered Mother preaching, hoping to give them some kind of reassurance.

“And that’s Vir’era at the back. He was—what did you call it, Theron?” Alistair’s use of my name brought my attention again.

“Vir’era was Second to our Keeper.” Theron’s eyes were sharp on Teagan. “That means, for those unfamiliar with Dalish custom, that he is a mage.”

“I see,” Teagan said. He looked at me somewhat warily, but nodded. “You have nothing to fear from us. I understand you are a Grey Warden, now, anyhow, and beyond our reach, regardless.”

I wondered if that was meant to be reassuring, but given that I knew he would not harm us, I simply smiled and nodded. They then continued to speak, Bann Teagan softly begging our help, though he did it with the same kind of regality that made it seem somehow undemeaning.

We could hardly refuse. In part because Alistair looked so determined to help, and so dismayed when Morrigan started spouting off about not wishing to help every poor sod that crossed our path, but also because we would need to if we ever wished to speak with the arl, and I like to believe everyone knew that. Even Morrigan, for all her protests.

And so we began the task of preparing the city and its despairing townsfolk for another night of fighting corpses. Our group split off into various smaller groups to complete as many tasks as we could in as little time as we could. Neria, Theron, Leliana, and I went to find anything that may be of help that had gone unnoticed.

We found the general store, and Neria deliberated with Leliana over the possibility of using the barrels of oil to set the dead aflame while Theron requisitioned weapons that he found behind the counter. I poked around, and when I came upon a blank journal, I put it into my pack. I scrounged around a bit more for something to write with, and found some ink bottles and what looked to be a mix of brush and quill. It was the only writing implement I could find and make sense of, so I took it.

With so many of us all splitting up to take care of the various jobs, it didn’t take long at all for us to finish. Mostly, anyway; I saw Capella and Daylen scurrying about, collecting people to fight, and at one point ushering a boy towards the Chantry. They dragged Sten with them once, and came back with that dwarf. What was his name? I could never remember. He was an unpleasant sort. They brought the elf from the tavern, and the rude barkeep, too. Good. I hoped he’d die.

I sat on the Chantry steps, preferring the outside to its too-warm air. It was easier to breathe, here. I took out my new journal, and I started to write. In the interest of ensuring that the journal would go where it needed to, I first wrote a letter to Theron. I implored him to take it to Varric Tethras, should I die.

I hoped to make it through the tasks leading up to the final battle, at least, but if I didn’t—well, Theron could read it, if he liked. I would record what to expect, what could happen depending on their decisions, and I would try to record what actually happened afterwards. Hopefully, if it came to Varric’s hands, my knowledge of things I should not otherwise have known would convince him to heed my advice.

Varric might not have been the best choice; he tended to not believe crazy things until there was undeniable proof that it was, in fact, real. However, he was really the only choice. I only knew so much of what would happen, only through the events of Inquisition, and Varric played a large role in both II and Inquisition.

No one else would be as fitting. Varric might not believe my written words initially, but he was curious enough to test them. He would only have to read up to a point that had not happened to him yet, and if any of my predictions were true (which I expected they would be), he would suspend his disbelief to give me a chance.

I prayed, though, that it would not come to that. I begged Varric to test my words, in my letter, and wrote as concisely as I could of what was happening and what would happen.

I wrote until nightfall. Theron came to sit beside me a while. Capella inquired about my writing, and seemed to approve when I confessed to be writing what my gift told me, so that I would not forget. Morrigan eyed my journal, coming to look over my shoulder just once and huffing when I covered the words.

Everyone was antsy, waiting until the sky grew dark and the dead would come again. No small wonder, really. At my quiet suggestion—they seemed to weigh my words with tentative severity—half our number stayed to fight near the Chantry, and half went up to fight with the knight, Ser Perth.

I remained by the Chantry. There was no immediate need for me at either location; both would be under similar stress, and I knew of nothing that would cause me to be of more benefit in one place than the other. It took a distressingly long while for the dead to begin rising from the lake.

When they did, though, we were ready. Wynne and I stayed at the back, working shields. I sent some fire to a few corpses, but mostly there were too many of our people standing too close. Wynne was amazing with her healing spells; one man shouted, a major artery having been nicked and now spraying, and she had him healed before he could do more than press a hand to the wound.

I wondered whether she or Anders were the better healer, but figured I would never truly know. I would not see them together, though I was sure they must know each other. Anders had been in the Ferelden Circle, after all… if only for a brief time. Perhaps he’d been one of her apprentices, once.

The night was shorter than I expected it to be; the fighting kept time from dragging, I supposed. Only one died—that fat barkeep—though several suffered wounds that Wynne could not heal in the heat of battle. One man had broken his arm.

Bann Teagan enthusiastically congratulated us in front of the whole of what remained of Redcliffe, and then asked for our help in a final matter: entering the castle. He brought us up to the windmill and was confessing that he could have, in fact, entered unbeknownst to those currently there with a secret tunnel that ran under the windmill, when Lady Isolde came running from the castle’s bridge.

“Teagan!” she shouted, two guards jogging to keep up behind her. “Oh, Teagan, you’re alive! I could not forgive myself if you had been dead.”

“Lady Isolde?” he asked, eyes wide as he looked from her to the guards and then the castle. “What’s happening in the castle? We haven’t heard anything in days!”

Isolde sobbed. “It’s terrible, Teagan! A great evil is in the castle, and it is raising the dead—most are dead now. I could only leave because I said it was for Connor’s sake! He will not listen to me, but you are his uncle. Maybe he would listen to you…”

Capella stepped forward. “Hold on, what is this evil you’re talking about, my lady?”

The arlessa straightened, staring at our mismatched group as if only just realizing we were there. Her eyes lingered on Sten’s hulking form and all but ignored myself, Theron, and Neria before settling on Capella. “Teagan,” she said, her words slower as she shifted into a more regal posture, “who are these people?”

“These are Grey Wardens, my lady. They are here to help.” The bann held his hands placatingly towards the woman, who pursed her lips and nodded.

“I do not know what the evil is,” she said. “But I cannot let it hurt my son!” She turned back to Teagan, eyes beseeching. “Please, Teagan! Come to the castle with me.”

“The arl is safe, you said?” Castor asked, quickly.

“Yes!” Lady Isolde cried. “But I do not know for how much longer.”

Capella shifted. I suspected she was narrowing her eyes, but since I was behind her, I couldn’t see. “And how do we know you’re telling us the truth?”

“I cannot stay for long,” the lady said, glancing over her shoulder at the castle. “I must return, and I can only bring Teagan with me. I must bring him with. Please, let us go.”

I reached a hand to touch Capella’s elbow, then Castor’s. They glanced at me, but backed down. Bann Teagan and Lady Isolde seemed unaware; the bann was reassuring the lady that he would come immediately, but could he just speak with his friends in private for a moment, first?

She allowed it, of course, saying she would meet him on the bridge, and Teagan turned to us. “I cannot let this stand as is, but neither can you come in the front gates. Now, I will follow Isolde, and I will give you my signet ring.” He took it off and handed it to Alistair, whose jaw clenched as he stared at the piece of metal. “Use it to open the trap door in the windmill and enter the castle through the dungeons. Ser Perth and the other knights will wait outside the gates; once you’re in the courtyard, you can let them in. I’ll see you in the castle.”

And then, with just a murmur of understanding from Alistair and the Couslands following his words, he strode off after the arlessa. Ser Perth nodded to us, and our group entered the windmill. The trap door, hidden under a small amount of hay (hardly hidden, really), opened soundlessly. It must have been oiled recently.

We stepped down into the darkness one by one, with Neria taking point if only for her magelight. More undead were waiting in the castle. I did not relish that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo so i have a question for you lovely readers: though currently there are no dwarven wardens in this story, i was thinking of adding them. and this wouldn't be a retcon or a long process of editing them into previous chapters; should i add dwarves, i already have a Reason for their absence and a way to include them. so what say you? to dwarf or not to dwarf?


	6. too hot (hot damn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter six & we're findin dragons, man

The tunnel was smaller than I expected. Most everyone, except myself, Theron, and Neria, was hunched at least slightly over. The magelights Neria and us other mages kept up were softer than fire’s light, more of a glow than anything, and I was thankful. Glows allowed for fewer strange shadows.

It took us about five minutes to reach the castle’s dungeons—which was longer than I’d expected, and was spent entirely in silence. Alistair started to hum soon after we’d entered, but Daylen and Morrigan glared him into silence before it could develop a tune. (It had been so long since I sang…)

The few undead that we encountered in the main dungeon were hardly even worth noting after the previous night’s waves of the creatures. In fact, most of us didn’t even have to lift a finger; they were dead before Darrien (who was bringing up the rear) came through the door. He huffed upon realizing this, but soon stopped.

“Hello?” a voice called. Of course, I knew the voice—Jowan. “Is anybody there?”

In the tiny cell nearest the main entrance to the dungeons, the blood mage was peering through the caged door. “Who is—Neria? Daylen?” he asked, surprised, then, as she came into view, “Wynne?”

“Jowan,” Daylen greeted, voice smooth as iron.

“What are you doing here?” Neria asked. “I thought—didn’t the Templars get you?”

“Right, about that…” he started, a huff of nervous laughter slipping from his mouth. “Not really. I mean, they did, but then things happened, and my phylactery’s destroyed. So now they can’t.”

“Are you the great evil the arlessa spoke of?” Darrien interrupted, crossing his arms.

Jowan stared, wide-eyed. “N-no! I promise, I’m not, I don’t know what’s going on! I—the arlessa hired me to teach her son, that’s all. I … I did poison the arl, though. But only because I was told to do it by a man who said he was working for Arl Howe!”

Castor unsheathed a dagger and started to step forward, but Capella gripped her brother’s arm and held him back. Jowan swallowed, pupils dilated. “Why would the arlessa hire you to teach her son?” Capella asked. Each consonant was sharper than Castor’s blade, and pierced Jowan so fiercely he flinched.

“Because he was… he was showing signs of magic, and she didn’t want them to take Connor away.” Without taking his eyes off Castor’s still-drawn dagger, he half-shrugged awkwardly. “That’s—that’s what they do, you know? The arl didn’t even know. She couldn’t bear to tell him. She didn’t want to lose her son to the Circle.”

There was a silent moment, then Castor resheathed his dagger. “So, is it Connor who’s been reanimating the dead, then?” Castor demanded. “Is that what you’re trying to tell us?”

“No!” Jowan said, slightly less pale now that there were no weapons aimed at him. “He could barely do even a simple spell. This kind of magic is beyond him.”

“Then it was you,” Darrien concluded.

“N-no! I swear to you, until the arlessa came down and demanded that I reverse what I’d done I didn’t even know the dead were rising! I swear it! She—she didn’t believe me, of course,” he rambled, eyes flicking between our group. “She had me tortured, but nothing I said could please her. I… I think it’s a demon, but I didn’t summon it, I swear!”

Darrien stepped forward. He may have been shorter than Jowan, but with the greatsword on his back in plain view, he was still a rather foreboding sight. “Yet you just told us that this wasn’t Connor’s doing, and it can’t be neither of you.”

“I-I know.” The mage was trembling. I felt a small pang of sympathy, because Jowan, though not a particularly good person, was not an inherently bad man. He took a deep breath, but it shook. “He’s not strong enough to do it alone, but he may have accidentally caused a rift in the Fade after he found out his father was… ill, and then he might have summoned a demon.”

“He did,” I said. Everyone looked to me. Jowan opened and closed his mouth a few times, but everyone else nodded after a moment and started to move on, heading towards the castle main.

“W-wait!” Jowan called after us.

Neria was the only one to actually return to him. “What is it?” she asked. I had never heard her voice sound so detached.

“You’re not going to… to leave me here, are you?”

“Why not?” Neria shrugged. “A lot of this was your fault, after all. You poisoned the arl. Maybe you deserve to rot here.” Leliana stepped forward after that, eyebrows drawn.

“I know,” Jowan whimpered. “And I want to try to—to make things right, maybe, if I can. I know it won’t erase what I did,” he added, hurriedly, when Neria seemed unimpressed, “but I want to do whatever I can.”

“What would that be?”

“Maybe just… Just helping whoever’s still alive? I may be a maleficar, but I can at least help somehow! And if, after that, I’m executed, that’s fine, but I have to at least try to make things right!”

Neria’s shoulders slumped. “You always made such terrible decisions, Jowan,” she murmured as she opened the cage. Leliana smiled at the elf. “I never hated you, you know. But you need to get your head on straight sometime. If they let you keep it.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance, no?” Leliana said, putting a hand on Neria’s shoulder. Jowan thanked them profusely, but deigned to follow our group at quite the distance, as he seemed to believe we’d attract more trouble.

“As long as you don’t run off,” Daylen grumbled. Jowan was quick to reassure us that he wouldn’t. He just didn’t want to face extra danger. That’s all.

So we entered the castle main, at last. There were so many dead… The smell of rot and blood turned the air to a fog. Connor’s demon had killed all but the arl’s family and a tiny handful of guards, I knew, and all these (with the exception of Arl Eamon) were in the main hall. To be safe, and to ensure no unexpected attacks, we cleared the entirety of the floor before we sent Valena, who had been hiding in a back storeroom, back through the windmill tunnel.

The basement was empty of dead or undead, and we entered the courtyard to find very few. The melee fighters made quick work of those that were there as Capella opened the gates for Ser Perth—who was joined by First Enchanter Irving and a handful of mages.

“The First Enchanter explained that he was asked to come by one of the Grey Wardens,” Ser Perth said, though he seemed mildly uncomfortable by the concept.

“Yes!” Alistair said, jovially, as if it had been his idea. He smiled at Irving and the other mages. “Thank you for coming.”

Irving nodded. “Of course, Grey Warden.” Ser Perth took that to be that, and then we all entered the main hall.

The scene played out more or less exactly as it had in the game—Teagan dancing, Connor laughing and then switching erratically between the boy and the demon, the declaration of war against all of Thedas in return for keeping Eamon alive. It was… disgusting. Frightening, even. I felt my heartbeat speed up, and I backed away. Littlefoot, having not left my side since our arrival in Redcliffe, pressed gently against me.

I pushed my hand into his fur.

Connor gloated about cutting the ears from the castle’s elven residents and feeding them to the mabari. I whined, though I had known it was coming, and tried to keep myself grounded. It all felt so surreal—and soon there was a scuffle. The guards and Teagan attacked and were neutralized within moments.

Teagan and Isolde discussed the options with Alistair and the Couslands. Theron came to stand with me, and he wrapped one arm around my shoulders. I counted breaths as Jowan appeared and mentioned the option of blood magic and then First Enchanter Irving stepped in to offer the services of himself and the other Circle mages instead.

Neria was the one to go into the Fade after Connor. We saved him, though. We saved him, and so much of Redcliffe. I continued to count my breaths, and Castor volunteered us to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes. Leliana started chatting about it excitedly to Neria—she had, after all, been a Chantry Sister. Morrigan made a predictable mutter of disapproval, but went mostly ignored.

Arlessa Isolde offered us shelter for the night and food for a week to get us at least to Denerim where we could hopefully find Brother Genitivi, current foremost scholar on the Urn.

I knew we’d need to go to Haven, though. I didn’t say this yet. No one knew about Haven, not in 9:30 Dragon, when it was still the town of insular cultists. (Soon, the entire world would know. How funny that only a short few years could change so much…) Besides, I didn’t truly know where it was, anyways. Genitivi would have a map in Denerim that we could use to actually get to it.

I wrote in my journal as much as I could before collapsing asleep in a bed that actually had some kind of comfort that night. Theron and Littlefoot shared with me. I dreamed of blood and darkspawn.

 

As we traveled, I would sometimes sing to myself, especially at night, trying to keep the shadows from growing. It helped. It always had. The others seemed to enjoy it; once, Leliana asked if I would mind singing a song at the fire after dinner. She then sang one of her own. It was lovely—in the game, she only ever sang once. It was nice to hear more. Perhaps she missed the songs from her bard life…

“Would you teach me the lullaby you sang? Sleep, baby, sleep, that one?” Leliana asked me the second night, during our watch.

“Um, okay,” I replied. “I-it’s called ‘Balulalow.’ It’s… it’s meant for a whole choir, but I like it just as well with one person, so…” And I started to sing, softly at first, for Leliana. “Balulalow, balulalow…”

Leliana took to the song quickly; I expected nothing less. She had been a bard, after all. She likely learned many songs in very short periods of time. And Balulalow sounded so sweet coming from her voice.

 

On the third day, when we were just past the uppermost point of Lake Calenhad, a young woman came up and begged for our help. Her hair was shoulder-length, blonde, and I quickly recognized her. I reached out and tugged Theron’s arm. “It’s Zevran,” I murmured to him. “She is leading us to him. We will be ambushed.”

He said nothing, but readied his bow. I slung my staff from my back, and our party slowly seemed to follow my lead, though Alistair was at the front. We entered a clearing, following the woman, and there he was.

Zevran was shorter than I expected. But maybe I’d simply forgotten how short he would be; his personality was so big, so jovial… I pressed one hand down against Littlefoot’s fur, and then Zevran raised one hand, smirked, and signaled.

Assassins burst from behind the overturned wagon next to Zevran, from the bushes at our sides. One threw a smoke bomb, but Neria was a quick thinker; wind pushed it away quickly. “Make sure the blonde one doesn’t die,” I told Littlefoot. He barked and raced forwards. I put a shield on him, and he even made it to Zevran unharmed.

An arrow nearly hit me; Capella shot it down in a move I hadn’t known anyone capable of. I thanked her by adding a fire to the tip of her next arrow as it flew to an archer on a cliff.

The scuffle was over quickly. Darrien soon started to shamelessly rifle through the pockets of the assassins for coin; Morrigan joined him. Castor made a face, but didn’t object when Darrien offered him the arrows from one of the archer’s backs. Theron and I slowly approached Zevran, who seemed mostly uninjured—I hadn’t seen what had happened to him after Littlefoot’s approach, but it looked like he’d merely been knocked unconscious.

“This is Zevran,” I said, and knelt down. I felt for a pulse in his wrist, knowing better how to find it there than at his neck. “He’s still alive.” I breathed out slowly, and looked up.

“I see some rope.” Theron reached to one of the bodies and pulled it free of the belt. He and I tied Zevran’s hands and feet, and when we stepped back, we looked around.

“Well?” Morrigan asked, unimpressed. “Will you wake him or not? If not, I would suggest we move on. ‘Tis nearly midday already, and we must make haste for that arl, no?”

“Loathe as I am to agree with Morrigan, of all people,” Alistair added, which got an eyeroll from the witch in question and a series of put-upon sighs, “she does have a point. Can we just get this over with?”

“Whiny babies,” I murmured, then kissed Littlefoot’s head. “Littlefoot, lick Zevran’s ear until he wakes up, okay?”

It only took three insistent licks from my mabari’s tongue to rouse the assassin.

“Hmm, wha…? Oh.” Zevran looked at our group, blinking his eyes slowly. “I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.” He sounded more tired than I’d expected. His words were defeated.

“We have some questions,” Theron said.

Zevran’s eyes lingered on Theron and a slow smile slid up his lips. “I’m always happy to answer questions for someone so handsome.” Theron balked. “No worries! Let me save you a bit of time and get right to the point.” He winked. “My name is Zevran—Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows…”

I tuned out the rest as our group shifted around, surrounding Zevran and asking more and more questions. I petted Littlefoot; I already knew everything he’d say, more or less. I thought I heard him flirt with pretty much everyone, but since I wasn’t paying attention, I couldn’t be sure.

“…could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer,” Zevran was saying, as I began to listen again. “Warm your bed?” If I wasn’t mistaken, he was looking specifically at Theron. “Fend off unwanted suitors? No?”

“Bed warming?” Theron asked, and he was frowning but he was leaning close to Zevran. Zevran smiled widely.

“See? I knew we could find a common interest. Or two, or three. Really, I could go all night.” Another wink, and Theron was bright red, though he didn’t lean back. “So,” Zevran said, looking around at everyone once more, “what will it be? I can even shine armor. You won’t find a better deal.” He’d make a wonderful car salesman.

“We’ll bring you along,” I said. His eyebrows raised when he looked at me, but he smiled.

“Do we have to?” Alistair asked. “Really, he’s an assassin.”

Capella murmured something to him, and he grumbled, but agreed. Morrigan smiled. “A fine plan, though I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on, were I you.”

“That’s excellent advice for anyone,” Zevran said, smiling up at Morrigan. She just rolled her eyes at him. Wynne made some worried noises at the back, but Daylen reassured her with something or another.

“Welcome, Zevran,” Leliana said. When Zevran openly flirted with her, I saw Theron frown. Really, I thought to myself. Already, Theron? At least Leliana shot him down quickly enough.

As Theron helped Zevran to stand, using Da’misu to cut the ropes, Zevran recited his little oath. “I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear.”

It turned out that Zevran did, indeed, have his own tent, though he also made it very clear that he was very much unopposed to sharing. He made it no secret that he found everyone at least somewhat attractive, but I noticed him watching Theron most. (Plus, most of the group was quick to shut him down, but Theron didn’t.)

We had four more days on the road. When we arrived in Denerim, Darrien tried to go to the Alienage to see his friends and family, but… Well, it was closed. As I’d known, but hadn’t seen fit to share. Maybe I should have. “They’ll be fine,” I told him. “It’s… not everyone will be fine, but Shianni is alright.”

He stared at me when I said her name, but just kind of nodded and stormed off. Castor and Capella suggested splitting up to see about getting small jobs done—the Chanter’s board, the Mages’ Collective, the Blackstone Irregulars, and the like—so, we did. We didn’t have the coin to stay at an inn, but agreed to all meet back at camp before nightfall. Sten, Bodhan, Sandal, and the dogs stayed at camp.

Alistair asked to see his sister and the Couslands went with him, thinking it would go easier if there were humans. Daylen and Morrigan took care of the Blackstone Irregulars’ requests, and Neria worked with Darrien for the Mages’ Collective. Wynne and Leliana offered to see about the Chanter’s Board, so Theron, Zevran, and I took up the task of locating Brother Genitivi’s house and his work.

We located his home easily; the girl Liselle in the marketplace had known who we were talking about and was happy to point us in the right direction. Before we entered, though, I stopped Theron. “Genitivi is not here,” I said. “And the man who is here is not Weylon, his apprentice, though he will claim to be. This man would send us to Lake Calenhad. There is nothing for us at Calenhad, not now. We must get to the back room.”

“Will he stop us?” Theron asked. Zevran watched us speak with arms crossed and eyebrows raised, but said nothing. I wondered if anyone had thought to fill him in while Morrigan furthered my training when we made camp.

“He will try.”

We opened the door, and before the not-Weylon could greet us, Zevran had put a knife in his neck. “Oops!” he said. “Sorry, my friend, but we must really see what it is you are hiding, no?”

He used the imposter’s clothing to clean his blade. “Thank you,” I said to him, and walked straight through to the back. I let Zevran pick around to find anything of value in the main area and watch our backs as Theron followed me through the door.

By this point, I was growing worringly accustomed to the stench of decay. I didn’t even cover my nose. I ignored the real Weylon’s body, shoddily covered with a shroud that did nothing to mask the smell, and searched Genitivi’s desk for the papers I needed.

“There should be a map,” I said to Theron. “We need one that tells us where to find the village of Haven. That is where the Urn of Sacred Ashes is.” The drawers on the right side held only pages and pages of notes, seemingly endless.

“Is this the map?” Theron asked, pulling out a large paper from the left side of the desk. He spread it atop, and I looked. It was a map of Ferelden and the Frostbacks. Denerim, Highever, Redcliffe, Ostagar… Marked with an ‘x,’ and in a different ink from what had been originally used, was Haven, up high in the Frostbacks, along the road from Orzammar to Redcliffe.

“Yes.” I held my breath as I tried to estimate how long it would take us to reach Haven, to fight our way through the cultists and their dragons. “There is a High Dragon living there,” I whispered. “With luck, we will not need to fight her.”

Theron’s jaw clenched and he stared at me. “We haven’t had the best luck.”

I looked him in the eye. “Luck and destiny are not the same. You were intended to be here. I don’t know if you are meant to fight the dragon. We should be prepared, though.” My breath shuddered as I rolled the map up and put it in my pack.

“That is why we have you, I would think,” came Zevran’s voice. He was leaning against the doorway, flipping a few coins. “Was there maybe more coin in this Brother’s desk? Our friend was not carrying much.”

Theron held up a small but full coinpurse, and Zevran grinned. “Now we know how to find this Urn and we have some money to get there!”

We were the first to return to camp, so we started dinner as everyone else trickled back. Leliana and Wynne finished what they could for the Chanter’s Board, but brought up the locations of the Kalaf-Fe hideout and the encroaching civil war battle sites that we could take advantage of to stop Loghain’s men. Alistair retreated to his tent immediately, and Capella was having a quiet, somewhat angry discussion with Castor.

I wondered if Castor had told Alistair that he needed to see the world as it was: to see that everyone was selfish, out for themselves. It was the line that hardened Alistair in-game, after all. A good tactical move, if you planned to have Alistair on the throne regardless of any other consequences.

Morrigan and Daylen came back and mentioned a sign they’d seen looking for Grey Warden supporters. When Darrien and Neria were back, they mentioned having some things that would need to be done in other areas, too, “but it shouldn't be difficult, really. Taking lyrium to a knight in Redcliffe and there’s an apprentice in Orzammar who’s being let loose.”

“We’ll be at both of those locations eventually,” Capella said. “Is it good pay, at least?”

Neria shrugged. “A couple gold each. Not a lot, compared to some jobs, but it’ll buy us food, at least. No fancy armor or weapons, though.”

“The smith, Wade, should be happy enough to make armor if we can bring him more drake scales,” Castor said. “He was right next to Goldanna’s, so we popped in before going to see her. Insisted on making some armor with the drake scale we’d found on the drakes in the Circle and that one with those hurlocks the other day.”

“Drake scale armor is very fine,” Zevran put in. “And if this smith is worth his salt, it would be very good for at least one to wear.” Glancing to me, he added, “Plus, the little fortune-teller seems to think we will be running into a High Dragon. Even if he’s wrong, it can’t hurt to have someone wearing armor that is fireproof, no?”

“Oh, I kinda doubt he’s wrong, at this point.” Castor tossed one of his daggers in the air, watching it arc before he caught it as easily as breathing. “He hasn’t been wrong yet. Told us about you, even.”

Zevran flipped his hair. “About how handsome I am, I hope?” He grinned at me.

Theron prodded him with one boot. “About how you were sent to kill us but would fail, more like. He was rooting for us to take you in, said you would be—what was it, Vir’era?”

I’d forgotten, honestly. “I probably said useful.” I pulled my notebook out. Morrigan had seemed completely uninterested in doing any more training tonight, though I was hoping to get her to agree to teach me to shapeshift.

“Oh no,” Zevran tutted, putting a hand over my notebook before I could open it. “Whenever you take that out, you end up writing well into the night. I’ve heard you singing sometimes, and you really have quite the lovely voice, you know? I would like it if you would sing for me tonight, before you scurry off to scratch whatever it is into that diary.”

“I-it’s notes about—about what I know,” I protested.

“Is Vir’era going to sing?” Leliana asked, stepping to our side of the fire. “Oh, I love to hear you sing! Please, would you?”

And I couldn’t say no to that. I sighed, but nodded. “U-um, but what should I sing?”

Leliana and Zevran both thought about it. “Well, I don’t mind,” Zevran said with a shrug. “I would just like to hear you sing, hm?”

“You were singing about a ring once, when we found that one ring you like.” Leliana pointed to my hand, which was, in fact, wearing the iron ring we’d found. It was an oroboros.

I nodded. “Okay, uh, here goes…” I took a breath, and started. “Well, things change fast. This too shall pass: better carve it on your forehead or tattoo it on your ass…”

My voice started quiet. It always did, really, until I became more confident, and then it got louder. At least, for this song, it worked. That was kind of the style. I loved this song, really, and the words ‘this too shall pass’ were something special. They comforted me. Everything goes on. This too shall pass. Live moves ever forward.

“…they came back with a ring; it was simple and was plainly unbefitting of the king. Engraved in black, well it had no front or back, but there were words around the band that said: Just know, this too shall pass.” I finished the song almost as quiet as I’d started it.

There was silence for a moment, the last sibilant hanging in the air with the crickets and the fire, and then Zevran sighed. “That was a wonderful song, but surely you meant druffalo? Buffalo is such a funny mistake.”

I laughed.

 

We spent a few more days camping outside of Denerim. We visited the Pearl, and Zevran was more than delighted to see Isabela. She gave Castor a few pointers on dueling, which he seemed to take to quite naturally. Alistair and Darrien went to the back to find out about that Grey Warden poster (the fraudulent thing; I heard fighting, but it didn’t last long). Meanwhile, Capella sweet-talked the mercenaries there into leaving. (Later, she did the same for the Crimson Oars over at the Gnawed Noble.)

Morrigan agreed to teach me how to shapeshift in exchange for a promise: that I would help her locate her mother’s grimoire, which she believed to be in Ferelden’s Circle. I agreed.

I knew exactly where it was, after all.

So, every night from the third in Denerim and onwards as we started to make our way back to the Frostbacks, Morrigan had me meditate for an hour and watch Littlefoot for another. No interaction, no speaking, nothing. I simply had to observe everything he did, the way he moved, how his body responded to the world and how it responded to him.

It was calming. I could feel the waves of my anxiety beating against the cliffs of my mind constantly, like a stormy sea, but this let me concentrate on something simple for a while. The waves didn’t feel so big.

We stopped at a bann’s lands to help them fight back Loghain’s forces and the Couslands took a moment to speak with the bann himself, who was more than happy to learn of their continued existence. “I heard the whole family was killed,” he told them. “And I knew your father would never stand for what Loghain’s doing, so it worried me. But this is good news. Very good news.”

“Thank you,” Capella said. “Together, we will stop Loghain and end this Blight—and I guarantee you, serah, that it is a true Blight. I have seen the archdemon myself.” She didn’t mention that we’d only yet seen it in our dreams.

A day later, near Bann Loren’s lands, we came across a man being killed. We managed to stop it, but not in time. He told us of Cailan’s papers at Ostagar. We’d need to return, to find them and collect Cailan’s armor. Alistair punched a tree, but we couldn’t go to Ostagar yet.

First, we had to go to Haven.

The Frostbacks were colder than I’d expected. Morrigan didn’t seem bothered by it, even though she never bothered putting on more than her usual skimpy outfit. (She taught me a warming spell the second night, when I asked her.) It took a day and a half of walking up the mountain to reach Haven. We left Bodhan and Sandal at the base, in a little town where they could peddle their wares for a while.

Haven in real life was creepier than Haven in game. Even as we approached, it was already a too-quiet town. The guard stationed outside gave us the same information I’d expected, the same information I’d told the group over the week and a half it took us to get here.

(Three weeks since Redcliffe. Almost two months since the Eluvian. Funny.)

It took us approximately ten minutes to have the whole village on our asses. I barely got a shield up in time to slow an arrow heading for Theron’s head. We quickly formed ranks, something we’d learned more on the go than through actual intent. Mages at the back, archers staggered in front of them, and the melee fighters running out to engage.

Littlefoot, Dracula, and Stellaluna always were quite particular about their targets—priority number one was keeping their Masters safe. If an arrow was aimed at me, Littlefoot attacked that archer first. Dracula stayed at Castor’s side in the thick of it. Stellaluna followed up on Capella’s arrows to ensure what went down stayed down.

When I noticed a mage near the store, I alerted Alistair, because none of Theron’s arrows were going to go fast enough through that barrier, and Alistair had Templar training. “Alistair! A mage, left of the store!”

I probably should have been glad he remembered which building was the store; he barely even bothered to aim his cleanse, but I saw the shimmer of that mage’s barrier fall as his mana depleted. Theron was fast, sending in an arrow, and Zevran appeared behind the man to finish the job with a slit across his throat.

It was a bloody walk up to Haven’s Chantry.

We killed their Revered Father (Leliana was so baffled at the existence of an Andrastian Revered Father, but did not hesitate to fight) and we found Brother Genitivi.

“Eirich’s medallion,” he said, almost the first thing. “Do you have it?”

Zevran lifted it up, having apparently pilfered it. “You mean that?” Theron asked.

“Yes,” Genitivi’s eyes were wide as he gazed at it. “It’s the key. Let’s go to the Temple. The Urn is there, I just know it, but they’ve never been able to get to it. Something about a gatekeeper…”

Despite Wynne’s protests and Neria’s attempts to get Genitivi to stay behind and off his likely sprained ankle, he insisted on coming with us up the mountain to the Temple. It was a longer walk than I expected. Zevran muttered something about ‘freezing Ferelden’ as we ascended.

Brother Genitivi placed the medallion against the door and turned it round. Something clunked, echoing behind the door, and he smiled. Darrien pushed the doors open, and I could swear I saw a tear fall from Genitivi’s face. “This temple,” he whispered, “must have been built by her disciples. The Disciples of Andraste.”

His voice didn’t echo in the snowy, cavernous interior. Many of the windows had been broken, and icicles were everywhere. “Look at the walls!” His voice was so quiet, so reverent, but positively bouncing with excitement. “Maker, this must tell us things we’ve forgotten. Things about Andraste’s life we don’t know.” He was pointing at murals, barely visible for the ice and snow.

He looked at our group. “I’ll just… stay here, shall I? Examine the murals closer. It should be safe enough, and I would only get in the way if I tried to follow you. No, I think it’s best if I stay.”

“Are you sure, Brother?” Leliana asked, a hand on his arm. He covered it with his own and a smiling nod.

“Yes, of course. You go ahead, find the Urn. I’ll wait here.”

With a collective breath, we started forward.

We had entered the dragon’s lair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so what i'm getting is a yes to adding dwarven characters later. speak now or forever hold your peace. (also, quick note: i'm like four parts ahead in writing in actuality so the dwarves won't appear for another, like... five or so chapters here.)
> 
> also, songs:  
> [balulalow](https://choralmusic.com/audio/balulalow.mp3)  
> [this too shall pass](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kPkkqxsjIY)


	7. seventh heaven

The ruined temple was beautiful, but freezing. There was less conflict than I expected; either there were fewer villagers in reality than in the game, or they had all gathered to a more centralized area. I saw no children, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. Hopefully, they were hiding somewhere. My breath crystallized in front of me as I walked.

“This door requires a key,” Morrigan declared, having forged ahead after a small melee to check the large double-doors at the rear of the temple hall.

I glanced around and pointed down the hall to one side. “I… think it should be in a locked room that way. And that key is… this way?” I pointed to the opposite hall.

“I can try to pick the locks,” Leliana offered.

“Ah, but that would ruin the fun!” Zevran said. “And if we go hunting for a key, we may find some treasures, no?” He grinned, pulling a coinpurse off of one of the cultists we had killed and jingling it. She shrugged.

“I, for one, agree with Zevran.” Morrigan stepped to a different cultist and pulled up another coinpurse. “As noble as our cause is, we are hardly being paid to do it, and I’d rather not go cold and hungry, hm?”

There were some general murmurings of agreement. Off we set, then, and though they asked I had to admit that I wasn’t entirely sure where the keys were. “But if we follow the, um… If we follow a wall to one side and don’t deviate, we should find them eventually and we won’t lose our way, either.”

“A sound strategy,” Sten complimented. I blushed, and we started with one hallway, following the left wall.

We found various loot; Zevran even made a pleased sound and switched a dagger for one in a chest. I saw a few staves in one room, but by that point I was already attached to my own staff. I had no desire to switch unless necessary; it was a sturdy thing, if not particularly decorated, made of ironbark.

Finding one key and using it to access the door beyond which hid the main doors’ key was mostly uneventful. Some cultists tried to stop us, and the narrow hallway was not ideal for a large group fight, but we were able to overcome them with little issue.

The second main room in the ruined temple was unremarkable and we crept through to the back. A large unlit brazier, full of slightly-burned wood, was its focus. It was at least as wide as I was tall; though I was hardly a tall person, being an elf, it was still a substantial size.

“Why is it not lit?” Leliana murmured. “If they are followers of Andraste, as they say—the fire should never burn out. That is the tradition.”

Castor and Capella muttered to each other as they frowned up at the double-doors blocking our way further. “The doors are locked,” Castor said, “and they’ve got something written on them. Can’t quite make it out…”

Theron and Zevran went over to investigate, and before I could mention it, Leliana was already lighting the brazier. “The Holy Brazier.” She motioned over it, then struck a match and dropped it in. The wood sparked immediately, surprising me. “It should never have gone out.”

She turned to Neria, about to tell the Holy Brazier’s story, but Zevran made a surprised sound and everyone’s attention went to him. He had jumped from the door, eyebrows lifted high, but then he grinned at the group. “It’s open now!”

“The brazier must have been the key,” Capella concluded, and she took her bow from her back as Castor slunk into the room. The duck and roll he immediately performed was proven necessary by a blast of Winter’s Grasp. Alistair charged forward to neutralize the mage, and the melee attackers followed suit.

I entered after them to cast shields, pointing Darrien to the left where everyone else had gone right; there were archers that way. He easily distracted them, his large sword more imposing than Leliana’s bow, but it was still Leliana who dispatched them. She was generally more dangerous still. Likely always would be, unless the elf really stepped up his game. (I would be surprised, though.)

Once the left side was cleared, we moved to the right as a group. Alistair, by silent understanding, stood near the front. He was still not necessarily what I’d call the best leader—though he was obviously trying very hard to be a better one—but he was the only person with Templar training. He could keep hostile magic at bay, and there were more mages here than anywhere yet.

A few more staggered groups of cultists tried to stop us. They failed. We made it to the top of the stairs and into the last room of what could truly be called the temple, and then started to encounter the caverns.

“Caves?” Morrigan huffed and frowned. “What are caves doing attached to an Andrastian temple?”

“Well,” Daylen started. “I wouldn’t exactly say these… these so-called Disciples of Andraste have been the friendliest folk. Maybe they’re bred back here. Demons?”

Neria rolled her eyes. Before she could comment, more cultists ran at us. “Maybe we should ask them, no?” Zevran teased.

“No,” Theron said.

“Mm, whatever you say, my dear.” Zevran slit the throat of his current target and Theron blushed. The assassin winked upon noticing this. Daylen groaned.

We came to a corner. Alistair was the first around it, and he cursed. “Drakes,” he warned, and Sten rounded the corner to help. I heard a loud, reptilian scream. Another. I turned the corner. Alistair was trying to distract the two drakes with mild success while Zevran and Castor slipped behind them. The noises attracted attention, though.

Four cultists came from a small tunnel hardly visible in the gloom and monotonous nature of the caverns. Capella fired a warning shot into one’s head, the grunt causing Castor to turn around to take them on. Theron sent an arrow, as well, but it was deflected by a shield.

Wynne worked magical shields for our fighters. Stellaluna and Littlefoot were more interested in the drakes, but Dracula clamped his jaws firmly around the wrist of a Reaver, forcing him to drop his sword and drawing a scream from the man. The distraction was enough for Castor to shove both his daggers between the attacker’s armor, incapacitating him.

Darrien yelled as he charged past Castor to the two cultists still standing and caught a small blow to his shoulder for his trouble, though it did allow Dracula and Castor to approach undetected. Darrien yelped and ducked a secondary blow even as Wynne sent healing spells across the field to stem the bleeding.

The drakes were a bigger problem, really. The mabari were little more than distractions; neither their claws nor their teeth were sharp or thin enough to breach the thick outer scales of the creatures. Alistair had been scratched multiple times—mostly on his armor, thankfully, but there was some evidence of bleeding that Wynne must have stopped temporarily until she could heal him properly when the battle ended.

I was unsure how to help. Morrigan cast glyphs under the drakes’ feet, but they did little more than prevent more damage to our party. Neria’s spells weren’t doing much, either, it seemed, and Daylen’s pure force just pushed them around.

“Can you get them to be still?” Capella asked.

“If I had help,” Morrigan answered, “I could paralyze them, yes. Vir’era.” She looked to me, and I swallowed. “When I say ‘now,’ cast a paralyzing glyph under the closer one.”

I nodded, pulling up my mana in preparation.

“Now!”

Simultaneously, Morrigan and I cast our glyphs. The closer drake stepped on it and froze as it was pushed back by a blow from Sten. Capella shot three arrows at its eyes; two hit dead-center. Theron added two of his own, one entering its mouth and another in the same eye as Capella’s. The drake fell.

“Can you do that again?” Capella glanced to Morrigan, then to me. We nodded. “Do it.”

Morrigan raised her staff. “Now!” she shouted, again. We repeated the process, and the second drake died in the same way as the first.

Looking further down the cavern, I could see Zevran and Castor cleaning their blades on the clothes of their victims, sharing some anecdote. Darrien, standing near them and holding his shoulder, laughed then winced. Castor gave him a smirk-like smile, but frowned at his injury.

“Wynne?” he called.

“In a moment, dear,” she replied. “He’ll be fine. I’m tending to Alistair at the moment.” Castor hummed and checked himself, then Dracula over for other injuries. Littlefoot came to check me over, even though I hadn’t even been close to the battle. I did the same for him, and found only a few nicks where the drake was slightly too fast for my mabari to fully dodge the attacks.

I healed him, earning a wet doggy kiss in response, and once Wynne had declared Darrien healed again, we started moving. We kept to the right wall this time, and eventually found what could only be called a nest. Dragon eggs lined small alcoves, and more drakes fought us. A few dragonlings jumped in, too, but their scales were nowhere near as developed as the drakes’.

Morrigan and I continued to use paralyzing glyphs on the drakes, letting our archers bring them down while the warriors mostly focused on distraction or taking down the few cultists who were present. It worked well, and we were only mildly tired by the end of it.

“Please tell me,” Neria said, “that we’re almost done with dragons and drakes.” A huff from Littlefoot seemed to mark agreement and she grinned at him. He wagged his tail.

“With all these eggs,” Capella said, gesturing around at them, “I sadly doubt it.”

“A High Dragon.” All eyes were on me. “There’s—there’s a High Dragon. She’s the one laying the eggs, and… she’s more or less the last we’ll see.”

Castor groaned. “I thought she’d come later when you said that last time. Fuck me.”

“No.” Capella kicked him gently and flipped her ponytail. “If we do it right…”

“I’m not sure we need to fight her,” I interrupted. Capella scowled at me. “I—um, that is. She… she should be asleep. But she might not be? I—I don’t—I’m not sure.” My voice was very quiet by the end.

“That’s great,” Alistair sighed. “A High Dragon. I’m sure there’s some kind of joke in there somewhere. Grey Wardens fighting a High Dragon. We’re supposed to be fighting darkspawn.”

Morrigan flicked a tiny shock at him, barely enough for a yelp. He pouted. “Do shut up,” she said. “If you weren’t so insistent on helping your precious arl, we wouldn’t be here, now, would we?”

“There’s no point in fighting about it.” Capella stood smoothly and started to walk back to the nest-room’s entrance. “We’ve come this far, and Vir’era has yet to give us false predictions. Let’s hope he’s right and that our dear dragon is asleep. If we’re careful, we could sneak right past her.”

We plodded along, more somber now and with tension flickering between members as we tracked the right wall to another tunnel offshoot. There was no resistance to be had as we walked up it, and I swore the hair on the back of my neck was standing straight. My breath fogged the air in front of my mouth.

Father Kolgrim was as much of a smarmy asshole as in the game, but his hair looked more wild here. I could smell an unidentifiable stench, too; I wondered if he or the others who were entrenched so deep in the caves ever took baths. From their hair, I would venture not.

No one even bothered trying to make a deal with Kolgrim. As Neria mentioned about halfway into Kolgrim’s speech, it sounded far too much like a deal with a demon—and those never turned out for the better of anyone involved. Instead, while he started pacing and trying more desperately to convert us or convince us (I couldn’t quite tell just what his end goal really was), Theron shot him in the neck.

There were a few stunned seconds where Kolgrim reached for his neck and stared at the blood, his followers frozen and our party (Theron and Zevran excluded) slow to react. Theron and Zevran were moving, though; Theron managed to down two other cultists (including one mage) and Zevran started skirting around to get the people at the back.

Someone screamed, and we all started moving. Wynne cast shields and the warriors yelled, bringing all the hostile eyes to them. Capella sent off two arrows in quick succession, getting one Reaver in the leg and another in the wrist. The mabari bolted forward. Morrigan placed glyphs just ahead of some charging cultists, catching them for easy prey.

Neria used the elemental magics like nobody’s business, and there was some charbroiled cultist in seconds. She didn’t even have time to scream. Daylen’s force spells crushed one that Morrigan had trapped. Leliana shot the other.

I was so distracted trying to keep up with everything and simply avoid being hit that I didn’t manage more than a few simple pure-mana blasts. We finished quickly, and I wondered if we were really that good or if the cultists had simply been too surprised to do much reciprocating damage to us.

It probably didn’t matter.

 

The mountain top was honestly frightening. From the small exit of the cavern, we could clearly see the High Dragon sleeping atop a flattened rock bed, her tail swishing with dreams. I took a deep breath, and could all but feel everyone else do the same. Capella, standing near the front with Alistair, turned to us and made a shushing motion. We all nodded, and started to creep forward.

My heart pounded in my chest. I could hear it as blood rushed in pulses through my veins, like some demented wardrum. I tried to keep my breathing slow and steady. My knuckles were white as I gripped my staff, unwilling to put it on my back until I was certain that we were out of danger. Maybe even a while after that.

Littlefoot pressed himself gently against the side of my leg, his steady warmth a sweet and calming reminder. I moved one hand from my staff to his fur with great effort. He panted up at me in happy acknowledgment.

We slowly stepped forward, a small procession. Alistair, Sten, and Darrien did what they could to keep the armor they wore from clanking much, resulting in an awkward shuffle. Everyone had their weapons drawn.

The narrow path to the Gauntlet, the second temple, echoed lightly, but felt safer. The dragon could not reach us here if she wanted to. We started moving more quickly, and entered the doors of the Gauntlet with surprising speed.

Inside, everyone else stopped short. “This place… it’s unblemished,” Leliana noted, eyes shining as she stared around at everything. She was smiling, just a bit, mouth agape.

“Kolgrim did say they were never able to get anywhere here,” Capella said.

“I guess this proves that.” Alistair was looking at a statue of Andraste, and he bowed his head briefly. I think he prayed in that moment.

Morrigan strode forward, slipping her staff back over her shoulder and brushing imaginary dust from herself. She only stopped when the Guardian greeted us all.

He felt more ethereal, more unearthly and inhuman than I anticipated. His presence radiated through the room, pulling and pushing as he breathed and glowing when he smiled at us. “I bid you welcome, piglrims,” he said, standing tall.

“Who are you?” Castor asked.

“I am the Guardian,” he answered, “the protector of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. I have waited years for this.” The metal wings on his helmet glittered in the firelight of the torches behind him.

“For us?” Daylen asked and crossed his arms.

The Guardian inclined his head, a half-smile on his lips. “You are the first to arrive in a very long time. It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste.

“For years beyond counting have I been here, and shall I remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea.” His voice was slow, deliberate, with an accent I assume had simply long changed in the average people to how Alistair or Daylen spoke.

“The Imperium isn’t as strong as it used to be,” Neria said, leaning forward slightly.

“Ah.” The Guardian smiled, eyes glancing back to the statue of Andraste by the entrance. “Is it not? Then perhaps this is the beginning of the end.”

“Who exactly are these other men that have taken over the rest of the temple?” Capella inquired, gesturing the way we’d come.

The Guardian’s shoulders fell slightly and his face slipped into sadness. “When my brethren and I carried Andraste from Tevinter to this sanctuary, we vowed to forever revere Her memory and guard Her. I have watched generations of my brethren take up the mantle of their fathers.

“For centuries they did this, unwavering, joyful in their appointed task. But now they have lost their way. They have forgotten Andraste and their promise.”

Silence, for a moment. Then, Capella spoke again. “We would like to see the Urn.”

The Guardian nodded once, a slow movement unhindered by his armor. “You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall, if you prove yourself worthy.”

“What if I’m not worthy?” Neria asked.

He turned his gaze to her. “Then you will not come to the Ashes.” He addressed us all with a small wave of his hand. “It is not my place to decide your worthiness. The Gauntlet does that. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not…” He trailed off.

The group seemed to shift as one, and Daylen straightened his robe. “Alright, let’s get this over with, then.”

The Guardian held up one hand. “Before you go, there is something I must ask… I see that the path that led you here was not easy.” Everyone held their breath. “There is suffering in your past—your suffering, and the suffering of others.”

He addressed Darrien first. “By the time you reached Shianni, she was broken, brutalized. You were too late. Tell me, pilgrim. Did you fail Shianni?”

Darrien’s answer was immediate. “No,” he said, almost vicious. “Vaughan is the villain. Not me.” He scowled.

The Guardian nodded, and turned to the Couslands. “Do you two regret leaving your mother behind to face death with your father?”

“Yes.” Capella pursed her lips.

“But Mother was always determined,” Castor said, voice soft. “She wouldn’t let us stay, and she wouldn’t leave Father. We can live for her.”

To Daylen and Neria. “You helped Jowan, and he managed to escape, but not without turning to blood magic. Do you think you did enough to help him?”

“Yes,” Daylen said, even as Neria said, “No.”

“He never listened,” Daylen explained. “He was too impatient.”

“I could have tried harder,” Neria murmured. “He just didn’t know what else to do. He was desperate.” Leliana put an arm around Neria, and she sank into it thankfully.

To Theron. “You and Tamlen both entered the ruins, but only you left. Did you fail Tamlen?”

Theron sighed. “I… We should have told the Keeper where we were going. I could have done more.” He kicked a foot against the ground. “Maybe I could have stopped him from touching the mirror.”

He didn’t look to me next. I heard my heart pound again. It was hard to concentrate as the Guardian asked our companions of their own regrets. I heard Morrigan tell off the spirit before he could even form her question aloud, and he let it go gracefully as ever.

And then he faced me. “And you,” he said. “Vir’era. Do you regret not speaking earlier?”

“Who would believe me?” I answered on automatic. “I’ve done what I could. I’ll keep doing what I can.”

“Then you do not dwell on your mistakes—or the mistakes of others.” He smiled at us all once more. “The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek.” He disappeared in a bright light and the doors behind him opened.

We stood still for a moment, collecting our thoughts after having our regrets laid bare. Then, with Darrien resolutely leading the way, we started forward.

First, the hall of spirits. Or whatever it should be called; eight spirits stood, four on each side of the hall, and each had a riddle. They were too easy to solve, really, and between Capella and Castor, we really didn’t need anyone else. Not even my prior knowledge.

Second, we met the spirits from our pasts. At least, I assume everyone met a spirit from their past. To be honest, I could see only my own visitor, and it was… me. Human me, the me from before the Eluvian and before entering Thedas. I stared and the spirit-human-me smiled a bit. “Would you change it?” he asked. “If you had the choice—would you go back, never having come at all?”

I looked at my friends, my companions. Capella and Castor with their staunch determination; Neria and Daylen, such opposites; Darrien, so fierce and angry; Theron, who had helped me from the start. “No,” I said. “I wish I could have chosen to come, but I wouldn’t change it.”

“You’ve grown, then. In spirit.” He winked and I giggled. Spirit, ha! He held out a hand and dropped a pendant into mine. “Take this. It’s not much, but it may help.”

I nodded, clasping my fingers around it and then putting it around my neck, to rest with my Warden’s Oath. When I looked up again, he was gone. Before we could be split up as we began to enter the next room, I cleared my throat. “The next room—we will be made to fight shadow versions of ourselves. Just. Thought you’d like to be prepared.”

“Thank you,” Alistair said, smiling at me, and I tugged the sleeves of my robes. We all brought our weapons to the ready, swords unsheathed, staves readied, and arrows nocked.

Creeping in first were Castor and Zevran, and the fight began immediately—their shades knew their tricks, after all, and were waiting. But what the shades knew now, we knew better, and we were more ready to act as a cohesive unit. Capella’s shade did not send cover fire for Alistair the way the real Capella did; Littlefoot’s shade did not protect mine.

Perhaps due to the essence of its being, Alistair’s shade also did not seem to know the same Templar tricks the real one did, so while our shade-mages were incapacitated, we were not. Daylen brought Wynne’s down first, then Morrigan’s. Theron shot through mine and into Neria’s. The real Morrigan summoned a small blizzard and I lost track of what happened next, but soon Alistair was yelling for her to drop the spell, already!

When her snowy storm cleared, Castor was covering Darrien but everyone else was standing and seemed alright. “Wynne!” Castor said, even as the elf pushed him off. “He got hit in the head.”

“I’m fine,” Darrien grumbled.

“I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind.” Wynne didn’t take no for an answer and checked his head over. “It isn’t anything major,” she conceded, “but it’s always best to nip things in the bud before they become an issue, hmm?”

Darrien sighed and Castor grinned. “Can’t have one of our great warriors injured, can we?” Darrien just stuck out his tongue, making Castor crow.

“If he’s alright, we should probably move on.” Daylen waved a hand to the door at the back of the room, then looked at me. “Not another battle, I hope?”

I shook my head. “No more battles in the Gauntlet.”

Third was the bridge-making. “We have to turn this,” I stood on one of the triggers, causing a spectral bridge-part to appear, “into solid stone by standing on similar triggers. When all the parts are made solid, from start to end…”

“Then we’ll be able to cross,” Capella concluded. I nodded, and we got to work. It took almost no time; we had enough people to stand on almost all the triggers simultaneously. Still, we crossed carefully; there was a lingering feeling that the bridge may disappear beneath our feet if we were not cautious.

It didn’t, of course.

The final room. Capella approached the altar, running her finger over the faded inscription upon it. “Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker’s sight.”

Castor looked at the flames ahead of us and groaned. “Please tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means,” he said.

“I think it does.” Capella sighed and placed her bow and quiver on the ground by the altar.

“What?” Alistair asked. “What does it mean?”

“We must walk through the fire,” Leliana said.

“Oh, great.” He started forward.

“Naked.”

He stumbled to a stop and spun around. “Naked?!” He looked at Capella and blushed; she was already taking off her boots and armor. “Um.”

Capella looked up, an eyebrow raised, then smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re worried, Alistair,” she teased.

“Come, there’s no shame in a naked body,” Zevran added, already somehow naked. Theron started upon noticing this and quickly averted his eyes, face bright red.

“Do… do we all have to go through?” I asked, clutching my robes closer.

“Probably,” Neria said, and she was naked, too. “And if not, it’s better safe than sorry, right?” I huffed and bit my lip.

“Should we take the collars off the mabari?” Castor was contemplating Dracula’s fine leather collar, looking between it and the flames. He was still in his smalls, but it looked like he’d only been momentarily distracted.

Capella, who beat her brother to be fully undressed, shrugged and took off Stellaluna’s collar. “Might as well.” She put the collar with her own clothing and armor, a neat pile to the right of the altar.

“Can someone help me with these fucking straps?” Darrien sounded mostly annoyed by the armor, which he had always had help getting into anyways. Castor was by his side before he could finish the question, and his face was amusing enough in its embarrassment at Castor’s nudity.

I stared in mild shock as everyone around me took to the demand with general ease—even Alistair, who was not about to be outdone by Zevran, of all people. I sighed and knelt to take off Littlefoot’s braid-collar first. This was the last thing I wanted to do. My hands shook.

Theron’s hand covered mine. “No one has to look,” he said, voice quiet and hand firm over my own. “I’ll make sure they don’t.”

I swallowed and nodded. I was now the last person to undress. Zevran came and before he could make some comment or another, Theron murmured something I couldn’t quite hear over the blood rushing, once again, in my ears. It was one hell of a day for my blood pressure.

Keeping my back to everyone, I pulled my robes over my head. Zevran started in on some tawdry tale, drawing groans from the group as a whole, but he had their attention with his insistent description and the movements of his hands. I stayed quiet and pushed my smalls off as quickly as I could, trying to stay out of mind for the moment.

Littlefoot stood at my left side as I walked determinedly to the far right; he was tall enough that everything was hidden. I wouldn’t have to answer their questions today or hear their confusion. Good. (Capella and Castor’s clever eyes said they had suspicions, though they said nothing and merely allowed me my privacy. I clenched my jaw.)

Almost as one, we stepped forward through the flames. Zevran was making an unnecessary comment about Wynne’s bosom, which she was deflecting wearily, when the Guardian reappeared. He smiled at us all.

“You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet; you have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrims.” He bowed, a small one but no less respectful for it, and pointed one arm to the Urn at the top of its dais. “Approach the Sacred Ashes.”

With that, the fire died and we were allowed to put our clothing and armor back on. I all but ran for my robes and was the first one dressed (mabari notwithstanding, of course). Mildly amused chatter rose as people helped others back into armor—Castor insisted on helping Darrien, who grumbled and loudly thanked the Maker that “at least you’re dressed this time!”

No one quite believed him, if the smirks sent his way meant what I thought they did. Neria was happy to help Leliana when she asked, and Alistair helped Capella, who in turn helped him. It wasn’t long before we were all clothed once more.

“A pity, truly,” Zevran said, “to cover such a wonderful bosom.” Wynne groaned, and Zevran shrugged. “But not as much a pity as covering myself. Or our dear Dalish archer…”

Theron’s back went completely straight and he coughed, making Zevran laugh loudly. “Yes, covering that one is the true pity.”

“No one needs to hear this,” Morrigan called. Zevran opened his mouth to switch his comments to her, but she glared. “Not one word, elf.” He grinned and shrugged.

“I only ever speak the truth, my lady, but for you, I will be silent.” Wink, smirk, saunter to hang around Theron. I’m sure if Morrigan didn’t see herself as being the epitome of maturity, she would have stuck her tongue out at him. Instead, she rolled her eyes.

Alistair and Leliana were among the first up the stairs to the raised dais that held another statue of Andraste, as well as the Urn of Sacred Ashes. Leliana fawned over them, in total awe, and Alistair knelt briefly to pray. Capella was the next up, followed by Neria. Theron and I hung back; this was not our place. We were Dalish; Andraste was not of our religion.

If it could be counted as my religion.

Sten stood with us and we watched the others quietly pay their respects. Capella took a pinch of the Ashes, placed into a small pouch with greater care than I would have thought. Perhaps she was religious, if only quietly so. I hadn’t expected it. But she was noble—religion was often a point of pride for nobles.

They spent a short moment up with the Ashes, and then we left the Temple of Sacred Ashes, creeping past the dragon once again and heading back through the ruined temple. I was shaking still, but passed it off for the cold. It wasn’t hard.

We brought Brother Genitivi back with us to the camp where Bodhan and Sandal were waiting. By the time we reached camp, the sun had left the sky and we were using magelight to guide our way back. Morrigan didn’t have me meditate that night, telling me to take a break. It had been a long day.

I panicked in the privacy of my tent. I cried, silent tears pushing past my eyelids and leaving burning trails in their wake. Littlefoot whined, pushing his head into my lap and licking the tears as they came. I didn’t stop him. My arms wrapped around his body of their own accord, and my breaths came fast, but not so fast that I could not smell his stinky dog-breath.

Theron slipped in and joined Littlefoot in comforting me. He put one arm around me and started quietly singing—a little lullaby. “Elgara vallas, da’len…” he sang, his voice soft. “Melava somniar. Mala taren aravas, ara ma’desen melar…”

The Dalish lullaby, Mir Da’len Somniar. I hadn’t heard it given a melody before, but I’d memorized the lyrics, once upon a time. The sweet, almost crooning song was slow and gentle. It wrapped around me like a blanket, though Theron wasn’t a stellar singer. He could at least hold a melody, if this was any indication.

When he trailed off at the end of the song, I sniffled and wiped my face of dog spit and the last lines of tears. “Ma serannas,” I whispered. He squeezed me gently, one hand stroking my hair and hummed.

Exhausted from the emotional turmoil, I fell asleep quickly.

 

We were still in the Frostbacks, barely heading south from Haven, when we ran into the man with Shale’s control rod. He whined at us about his missing donkey and useless helper. When Castor showed interest in the control rod that he cursed, blaming it for his troubles, he was all too eager to push it off on us. “Take it!” he said, almost overjoyed. “I certainly don’t want it! The word you’ll need to say is ‘dulef gar.’ Then the golem’s all yours! Bye!”

He shooed us off, and, honestly, I was plenty happy to get away from him. He was just… weird. Littlefoot looked up and woofed quietly at me, and I nodded. “I agree, buddy.” He sneezed.

That night, as we ate dinner, Castor asked if we should go see about this golem in Honnleath. “Honnleath…” Alistair pondered, staring at his meal. “That’s near Redcliffe. A bit out of the way, but…”

“They may be overrun with darkspawn right now.” Capella drew a small half-map in the dirt, with a circle depicting our approximate location and a large x for Redcliffe. “It’s to the south, isn’t it?” At Alistair’s nod, she drew a small x to the south. She pointed a bit south-west of the small x. “Ostagar’s about here, and we know that’s more or less where the darkspawn are surging from. It might not be a bad idea to check the town to see if there are survivors who need help.”

“That’s very nice and all,” Morrigan said, waving her fork at the map, “but don’t you think we have enough that we’re attempting? Acting as savior for yet another town would be unnecessary, if you ask me.”

Castor shook his head, taking the stick from Capella. “No, she has a point, I think. For one, it could help people, which is important, no matter how much you might disagree.” Morrigan sighed and Daylen shrugged, but everyone else seemed on board with that. “For another, if we Grey Wardens are seen actively trying to help those threatened by darkspawn, while Loghain’s over in Denerim usurping the throne and waging civil war, we could gain sympathizers.”

“We’ll need all the help we can get, and if it means another bann or lord is indebted to us,” Leliana said, smiling, “then it only works in our favor, no?”

Castor grinned at her. “Exactly!”

“Okay, now I’m not arguing, but,” Alistair started, frowning, “shouldn’t we, you know, go to Redcliffe and use the Ashes to heal Arl Eamon first? That’s kind of what we came out here for. Darkspawn or no, the golem will still be there if we wait a few days.”

“But the people might not.” Capella put a hand on Alistair’s arm. “Eamon is steady. The demon’s magic did see to that, and the poison shouldn’t be an issue any longer.” She looked to me. “Am I wrong?”

I shook my head slowly, swallowing my food before I answered. “I don’t think so. He won’t die, yet. I don’t know when, but not yet.” Assuming the logic I’d so far gone by held up, anyway.

Alistair huffed and stirred his stew. “Alright, we’ll go to Honnleath first. We should be there in… what, a day? A day and a half?”

We finished our meal and went about our nightly business. Morrigan said I was getting closer to shapeshifting. I wondered how I’d know. She didn’t say.

I wrote a letter in my journal to Mia Rutherford. Since we were going to Honnleath, and I knew Cullen had been from there, I hoped that even if I couldn’t see her myself, I could give someone that letter to give to her, to explain about Cullen. He would say nothing, I knew, but she would worry.

 

Mia Rutherford – 

I am Warden Vir’era of Ferelden. I’m writing to you concerning your brother, Cullen Rutherford, who was stationed as a Templar at Kinloch Hold. He is safe; he was not, for a while, but he is now. The Circle was attacked, and he faced some terrible things. He will need time and space to recover.

Knight-Commander Greagoir will be sending him to Kirkwall, where Knight-Commander Meredith and her currently more stable Circle should help him to recover. He is alive. He is safe. He needs time, and if he does not write to you, that is why. Allow him this, please.

I hope you are well, and please don’t worry too long over his fate. He’ll be fine.

Warden Vir’era Sabrae, 9:30 Dragon

 

Honnleath, when we arrived, was, unsurprisingly, much how it had happened in Origins. Crawling with darkspawn, a few villagers fleeing with only what was on their backs. We dispatched a few groups of creatures before deeming it mostly cleared. At least, any other darkspawn were hiding, not out in the open.

Castor, as the one with the control rod, approached the large golem standing in the middle of the town. “Dulef gar,” he said.

Nothing happened.

He frowned. “Dulef gar,” he tried again.

Nothing.

“It’s the wrong phrase,” I said. “The person who sold our unfortunate traveler the rod may be able to help us.”

“Wilhelm or something, wasn’t it?” Darrien asked.

“There’s a house over here that has Wilhelm on the door,” Neria announced, pointing.

Castor shrugged and we all went to investigate. The door was open; we walked in and started down into the cellar. Not far in, darkspawn started to make trouble. Fighting in small, enclosed areas was simply more difficult, and I didn’t even join the battle. Too many cooks, you could say. Too many cooks.

We slowly wandered down the winding cellar and made it to the lab-like room in which several refugees of Honnleath were standing behind an energy barrier. There were fewer darkspawn here, but a Hurlock alpha and Genlock emissary made it a bit more difficult overall. At least the Genlock seemed uninterested in keeping its companions alive; it used no healing spells, and we slaughtered them.

Once we did, one of the men behind the barrier waved a hand and released it. “Thank you,” he said, as the other villagers started to creep back out. “I’m Matthias. Are you Grey Wardens?”

“Yes,” Neria said. “We’re here for—well, we found a control rod, and the man who gave it to us said the golem was here, but the activation words he gave us didn’t work.”

“Oh.” Matthias’ face fell. “You came for Shale.” Bitter distaste crumbled from his words as they reached our ears. “I suppose mother must have sold that rod off and given the wrong words on purpose. See, my father was Wilhelm. That golem was his—until it killed him.

“As far as I’m concerned, you can have it.” He scrunched up his nose. “Good riddance, I say. But my daughter, Amalia, went further in the cellars. I need to stay here and make sure the other villagers are safe and to activate the wards again in case. But you could get her, and then I’ll give you the right words.”

Daylen started to argue, but Matthias stopped him. “I won’t give you the activation words until I know my daughter is safe. This used to be my father’s lab, and it’s dangerous; I would have stopped her if I could, but I’m the only one who knows how to work the wards.”

So we went after Amalia. Down, down, down into the cellar, where she was playing with ‘Kitty.’ The demon. “If we just try to kill her,” I said, quietly, as Kitty started trying to bargain, “she will possess Amalia. But if we free her first, Amalia can escape…”

Capella smirked, then sauntered up and used her silver tongue to charm the demon into believing she would help. Darrien and Castor worked on the puzzle that had her locked in the room; Darrien nearly burned Castor several times by changing the fire’s direction without noting the consequences. But Castor just kept jumping out of the way, never particularly blaming the elf, even if he got progressively more annoyed.

And Kitty tried to betray us—though she didn’t know it was our intent to betray her, anyways. As soon as she was freed, Amalia was, too; no longer under the demon’s spell, she screamed and ran past us up the stairs towards her father.

Desire demons are trickier than others, and this one was particularly adept at illusions. Alistair began the fight by running in the wrong direction, and Theron dispelled some illusions by shooting them. But on the whole, Kitty was never a hard battle; other than a bump on Alistair’s head from hitting the wall, there were no injuries on our side.

We trooped back up to Matthias, who was holding Amalia close. He was too grateful to care about much beyond the fact that his daughter was back. “And, since I promised it, here’s that golem’s activation words: Dulen harn.”

The others started walking away, but I had a final question. “Matthias?” I asked, quiet.

“Yes?” He stared down at me, perplexed.

“Do—does Mia Rutherford live in this town, still?” I shifted my weight back and forth.

He nodded. “Yes, I believe so. The Rutherfords haven’t left yet, I don’t think. Why?”

I held out my letter for Mia, folded in thirds. “I’ve a letter for her. It’s—about Cullen. We can’t stay long; would you see that she gets it, please?”

He blinked, but took the letter. “Certainly.”

“Ma serannas—er, I mean, thank you.” Awkwardly, I nodded my head to him and scurried back after my companions.

We climbed back up to Honnleath’s village proper. More confident this time, Castor sauntered up to the imposing golem and said, “Dulen harn.”

A beat.

Then, Shale slowly stretched, waving her hands about as if to bat away something or another. She sighed, staring bleakly at our group. “I knew that the day would come when someone would find the control rod.” She stared at Castor, and saw Daylen and huffed. “And of course, it is another mage—that is what it is, yes? Yes. Just my luck.” Her arms fell.

“Uh… Hello to you too?” Daylen tried.

She just huffed again. “I stood here in this spot and watched the wretched little villagers scurry around me for, oh, I have no idea how long. Many, many years.”

Alistair leaned against one of the fence posts. “And the villagers had no idea they were being watched? Creepy.”

Morrigan crossed her arms. “Then one wonders that you wouldn’t be grateful to the one who allowed you to stretch your legs, golem.”

“Hm.” Morrigan earned a glare from Shale. “Another mage, I see. Charming.” She looked to Castor, seeming to like him more—probably because he wasn’t a mage. “I was just beginning to get used to the boredom. Tell me, are all the villagers dead?”

He shook his head. “No, not all of them.”

“Some got away, then? How unfortunate.”

Daylen snorted.

“Do you have a name?” Castor asked.

“Perhaps.” The sheer intensity of her voice made me wonder at how much emotion she could convey without facial expressions. “I may have forgotten after all the years of being called ‘golem.’” She started to imitate what must have been Wilhelm. “Goblin, fetch me that chair! Do be a good golem and squash that insipid bandit. And let’s not forget! Golem, pick me up, I tire of walking.”

A pause. Shale stared at the control rod in Castor’s hand. “It… does have the control rod, does it not? I am awake, so it must…”

“Why?” Castor tilted his head.

“I see the control rod, yet I feel… Go on, order me to do something.”

“Fine. Attack Alistair.” He pointed to Alistair. I giggled, and so did Morrigan.

“Hey!” Alistair pouted, by comparison. Capella punched her brother’s arm.

Shale did nothing. “And, ah… Nothing. I feel nothing. I feel no compulsion to carry out its command. Is the control rod… broken?”

Castor shrugged. “If it is, what will you do?”

Shale considered his words. “I do not know. I will not stay here, but I have no memories. There is nowhere I must go, and with no orders to follow…”

“What do you want to do?” Castor considered the rod, tossing it and catching it.

“Perhaps I should follow it.”

“You going to keep calling me it?”

“All of you.”

“Great.”

We took Shale with us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might be late on a few posts in the future. i'm on vacay rn and not much writing time. i do have a few chapters stored up, but, well. might run out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meow.

On the way back to Redcliffe, we were attacked by a group of darkspawn near a hill. It wasn’t a particularly notable battle, except in that it was this battle which caused Wynne to reveal her “condition,” and when we stopped to camp later, she explained about her death in the Circle during its recent blood-mage uprising, and her subsequent revival thanks to a Fade spirit which entered her body to allow her continued life.

“I am an abomination,” she admitted. Neria reached out and took her hand, earning a fond smile and reassuring squeeze. Only I didn’t react.

Zevran cocked his head to the side. “I thought abominations were… ugly. Terrors or however you want to say. Abomination to look at as well as the whole demon part. You, my lady, are certainly no terror on the eyes.”

Wynne sighed heavily, looking briefly skyward. “Zevran, I cannot explain to you the nature of my existence any better than I have. There is a Fade spirit inside me—but it is not a demon. I am an abomination because it is there, but I have not lost myself, because it is not a demon. Either way, I’m living on borrowed time, and I intend to make the most of it.”

“Are… are you sure that’s wise?” Castor asked, words slow so as to avoid offending the mage. “You’re capable, but I don’t think you’ll survive the next time you, uh. Die.”

Her sharp blue eyes stared him down. “What, should I lay in bed and whimper at the thought of death while darkspawn ravage the country?” She harrumphed at him, and he winced. “I think not! I was given a second chance to help. I’m not going to squander it.”

“Will you tell us if you need to rest at least?” Neria asked. “Even a spirit can’t last forever, right?”

Wynne’s face slipped into a smile and she squeezed Neria’s hand again. “Of course, my dear. I do think I tried to do a bit much today.”

“I can help,” Daylen said. “I’m not bad at healing magic. Not as good as you, or what’s his face who kept running away, but better than Neria.”

Neria shrugged at that, apparently taking no offense. Wynne agreed to train him more in the arts of Spirit Healing; it was her specialty, after all. I was similar to Neria, and no one even thought of asking Morrigan. She wouldn’t, even if we asked.

 

It should only have taken us a day from Honnleath, and in a sense, it did, but as we left Honnleath late and were attacked by the darkspawn later, we did not reach Redcliffe until the next day. We walked into town and were greeted warmly; Bodhan and Sandal set up a small stall to trade with the villagers, who were happy to do so. Sten and Shale opted to stay with them, but the rest of our considerable group headed into the castle. (The two seemed to get along well, though the townsfolk seemed wary of their presence.)

Bann Teagan smiled as we entered the main hall; he must have been notified of our arrival, because he didn’t appear to be doing anything. “Welcome back,” he said. “Would it be too much to hope for any news?”

Capella pulled out the leather pouch in which she’d stored the pinch of Ashes. “We found the Urn of Sacred Ashes,” she announced, and Teagan smiled wider.

“Wonderful! Let us go to Eamon’s side see if the Urn’s healing powers live up to their reputation.” It was too much to take the whole group, so the Couslands, their dogs, and Alistair were the ones to follow Teagan.

Everyone else waited with bated breath. I could smell the tension like thick smoke, making it hard to breathe.

It was unnecessary. Eamon, seeming almost no worse for wear, soon came down to the main hall and was slowly informed of all that had come to pass since he fell ill.

He stared into the fire for much of it, standing very still, and only turned around once the silence began to stretch. He thanked us for saving his life and for saving his family, declaring us Champions of Redcliffe. He gave us a shield like those given to his knights, as well. Alistair could use it; it was likely better than the one he currently bore.

When this was done, Teagan stepped forward to be by his brother’s side, and drew the conversation to Loghain and his treachery. Eamon declared his sadness at Loghain’s betrayal, having known him as a very different person, but did not allow it to stop him from deciding to take action against the man who decided to instigate a civil war even as a Blight threatened the country.

“Loghain must be stopped,” he declared. “What’s more, we can scarce afford to fight this war to its bitter end.”

“You could unite the nobility against Loghain, couldn’t you?” Daylen asked, arms crossed.

“I could unite those opposing Loghain, yes.” Eamon’s voice was considering. “But not all oppose him. He has some very powerful allies.” If he had not been brought up a noble, I thought, he would be pacing now. The careful composure seemed natural, but his voice betrayed his thoughts. “Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance at fighting the darkspawn.”

“But once everyone’s learned what he’s done…” Neria said, half-stepping forward.

Eamon nodded to her. “I will spread word of Loghain’s treachery, both here and against the king, but it will be a claim made without proof.” He turned and walked to the fire again, hands behind his back. “Those claims will give Loghain’s allies pause, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore.” His hands clenched. “We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain’s daughter, the queen.”

Teagan started, facing his brother. “Are you referring to Alistair, brother? Are you certain?”

“I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative.” Eamon came to look at Alistair, who stood stock-still by Capella. “But the unthinkable has occurred.”

“You intend to put Alistair forward as king?” Capella asked. The firelight caught her eyes and something in them sparked—but perhaps it was a trick of the light.

“Teagan and I have a claim through marriage,” Eamon said, “but we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain himself.” He looked directly at Alistair. “Alistair’s claim is by blood.”

Finally, Alistair spoke. “And what about me? Does anyone care what I want?”

Morrigan snorted behind me, but it was soft enough to go unnoticed by most of the group, though I saw Daylen send a smirk her way.

Eamon’s eyebrows drew up. “You have a responsibility, Alistair. Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what you want?”

“I—but, I—” Alistair sighed, frowning. “No, my lord.”

Eamon nodded, and addressed the whole of us once more. “I see only one way to proceed. I will call for a landsmeet, a gathering of all Ferelden’s nobility in the city of Denerim.” I felt he included that only for the benefit of myself and Theron, as we were the only obvious outsiders. “There, Ferelden can decide who shall rule, one way or another.

“Then the business of fighting our true foe can begin.” He sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment. “What say you to that, my friends? I do not wish to proceed without your blessing.”

There was a short period where we all glanced at each other. Morrigan was blithely uninterested, and Daylen seemed disinclined to care. (They were a match made in heaven, really.) I nodded when Capella’s eyes met mine, and a sleek smile slipped up her lips. Castor gave his approval by thumping Alistair’s back (which gained him a half-hearted glare). Darrien shrugged and Theron nodded once.

“Let’s proceed with your plan,” Capella said.

“Very well. I will send out the word.” Eamon’s shoulders fell slightly, like simply making that decision had lessened the burden placed on them. We dealt with Jowan then—Neria spoke on his behalf, urging Eamon to send him to the Circle of Magi for judgment rather than executing him.

And with that, Eamon bid us to continue gathering the armies we would need to face the darkspawn and end the Blight while he prepared for the Landsmeet. He told us to come to Redcliffe when we were prepared to head to Denerim with him and face the nobility.

We were permitted to stay the night and were given provisions for the road once more. Darrien was the one to volunteer to fetch Sten, Shale, Bodhan, and Sandal, and we made the most of sleeping in actual beds rather than on the ground. I had the same room as the last time, if my memory served, and Theron shared with me again.

I worried, as I fell asleep, that I would find it hard later when Theron inevitably gave in to Zevran’s flirtations. It was easier to feel secure when sleeping by someone’s side.

 

Two nights into our travels, and my meditations continued to show little progress. Morrigan assured me that it was normal. “Shapeshifting is not an easy feat, and the first shift takes time. I accomplished it sooner, but I was able to dedicate much more time each day to the task.”

I was frustrated, though, and my thoughts wandered during that night’s meditation. I thought not of Littlefoot, as I was supposed to, but instead of the cats I’d left behind. I thought of Zelda’s soft, sleek fur and sweet sounds. I thought of Link’s constant confusion and curious, cautious exploration. The way Zelda’s tail flicked when she was agitated or swished when she was content; how Link’s cerebellar hypoplasia made his whole head move when he breathed in his sleep.

I remembered their purrs and the way they would greet me, and I felt myself grow calm and wistful. I missed them dearly. I doubted I would ever see them again, and I wished them well, in the quiet of my mind.

I tried to remember everything I could about them. The funny way Link walked or how Zelda always found ways to get where she wasn’t meant to be. Link’s striped brown and black fur and Zelda’s black-and-white.

When I opened my eyes, I was much lower to the ground than I remembered. I blinked, and looked around me. Littlefoot barked and trotted over. And as he grew closer, he grew larger—taller than me, when he was not meant to be. I made a surprised noise, then another, and a third when I heard the first two.

I was meowing.

I looked down at my feet—they were paws now. Small kitty paws, with pretty white fur that changed to orange and to black up my legs. I turned my head to look at the rest of myself. Orange and black and white fur, and a fluffy tail. Calico.

Delighted, I jumped up and moved to find Morrigan. Littlefoot followed me, panting loudly near my head. I was purring; a funny sensation, like my whole chest was vibrating, but it was comforting. Morrigan was talking with Daylen, who had a book he was showing her.

“…Mother’s Grimoire,” I heard Morrigan say. “I thought it was at the Circle. Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” Daylen replied. “I didn’t know what it was at first, and didn’t start reading it until recently, and so I thought… Well, I thought you’d want it.”

Morrigan smiled. Honestly, she was beautiful when she smiled. “Thank you, Daylen.” And then, as she looked down at the black book now in her hands, she saw me. She stared, and Daylen followed her gaze.

I meowed, louder than I meant, and warbly with my purr. The sound surprised me, making me blink and jump back a bit. Daylen laughed, and Morrigan smirked. “I see,” she said. “I believe I told you to watch your beast, though.” (Hearing this, Littlefoot woofed, but Morrigan ignored him.) “Where did you find a cat to observe?”

I started to speak, but only meows came out. Morrigan just raised an eyebrow. “Change back first,” she instructed, voice dry as a desert.

I blinked.

She stared at me, eyebrow still raised.

I thought about myself, about people, and then I was an elf again. I nearly lost my balance, but Morrigan caught my arm. “Oh,” I said. Ever eloquent.

“Indeed.”

I smiled, wide enough that it started to hurt, and laughed a little. “I had cats, before. I loved to watch them.” I blushed. “I may have thought about them, tonight, instead of Littlefoot.”

“Well,” Morrigan said, crossing her arms and considering me, “’tis not what I instructed, but it did work. Bravo. Though I do think I have perhaps been cheated, now; Daylen here has just given me my mother’s grimoire, and so you were able to benefit without payment.”

“Um, I can… do something else? Later? If you think of something else, I mean,” I offered. But I figured she would take me up on the offer for the real grimoire. The one Flemeth still had in her hut, which she would have us kill Flemeth for.

Morrigan hummed, tracing a pensive hand over the cover of the book. “I shall consider it.” She waved me off. “Go, practice more. I cannot teach more on the matter, but practice makes perfect, Mother is fond of saying. I have some reading to do…”

I turned and did precisely that, showing off my new skill to Theron and Neria and whoever else happened to be near them at the time.

 

It took us less than a week from Redcliffe to reach the Brecilian forest, but as we drew close, we were, once again, attacked; this time, it was assassins sent for Leliana. She stopped us from killing the leader, pointing out how much better they were than normal bandits, and questioned the man. He gave in easily, claiming no quarrel with any of us.

He told us he was hired and gave us directions to get to the house of the one who contacted him. “It’s in Denerim,” he said.

We let him leave with his cohorts, and Leliana sighed as they disappeared around a bend in the road. “It’s Marjolaine,” she said. “It has to be.”

“I thought you’d escaped from her,” Neria murmured, stepping close.

“I thought the same.” She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. “Maybe someone saw me. Maybe she’s finally found me and wants to finish what she started.”

“We should go to Denerim to confront her,” Capella decided, using the grass to wipe her blades clean.

Leliana nodded. “Perhaps it’s time to settle this score for good.”

“We’ll stop in Denerim after we find the Dalish, then,” Alistair said. “Unless…” His eyes wandered to meet mine, but I shrugged. “Alright, good.”

“Speaking of…” Theron interjected, stepping forward. “We should be drawing close to a Dalish encampment. I know there is a clan that frequents this part of the Brecilian forest. I think it may be wise to set up camp in the next opportune spot. Vir’era and I can find the clan, and when we have made our intentions clear, we can bring others as necessary to their camp.”

Alistair shifted. “I don’t like the idea of splitting up, but…” He sighed. “I guess you’d know best. You two are the only Dalish I’ve ever met.” Theron smirked.

“I would rather like to see this clan,” Zevran said, “but I will let you go on without me at first.” He sighed for dramatic effect.

No one else seemed to have any comments, though Darrien and Neria also seemed to desire at least in some part to visit the Dalish, too. I knew we’d need help, though, and Theron remembered our conversation from months ago.

 

We came to a small clearing not long after, and, as it was not yet late in the day, Theron, Littlefoot, and I left the others there to seek out Zathrian’s clan. We were approached soon enough by Mithra and two other hunters, and our faces gave her pause. She was not expecting to see unfamiliar Dalish.

“Our clan has camped in this spot,” she said. “You may be of our kind, but I suggest you leave.”

“We are Grey Wardens,” Theron replied. “We cannot leave. There is a Blight, and we have treaties that promise us aid from the Dalish.”

Mithra hesitated, lips pursed as she considered the two of us. “I will take you to the Keeper,” she said, at last. “If you are Grey Wardens, he is the one who you must speak with, anyway.”

“Ma serannas.” Theron and I followed her through the forest and to her clan.

“Mithra, what is this? I have little patience for anything not of the utmost importance right now.” Zathrian’s voice was cold as it hit our ears, and I stood back. He did not look at us long enough to realize we were anything but unfamiliar.

“They say they are Grey Wardens, Keeper.” She stood tall, but did not look him in the eye.

Zathrian blinked, and looked at myself and Theron once more, then rubbed a hand down his face. “Ma serannas, Mithra, you were right to bring them to me.” She left, and he addressed us. “Ir abelas, lethallin, and aneth ara. I assume you are here about the treaties we signed centuries ago?”

Theron nodded. “Yes, Keeper. I am Theron, and this is Vir’era. We are Grey Wardens, and before, we were of Clan Sabrae. I was a hunter, and he was Second to Keeper Marethari.”

This made Zathrian smile for a moment, before it disappeared once more into a frown. “I am afraid we may not be able to live up to our promises. I had heard of the Blight, and would have taken my clan further north, but…” He sighed, and gestured for us to follow as he walked to a different part of the camp.

“We came to the Brecilian forest, as is our custom when we are in this part of Ferelden.” Theron nodded along, and Zathrian continued. “But we were not prepared for… the werewolves.”

“I didn’t think there were werewolves anymore,” Theron murmured, glancing to me. I said nothing.

“There are. Most of our hunters are… not well.” We reached the part of camp designated for an infirmary. Several elves writhed on cots as a nurse hovered over them. “They have been afflicted by the curse. It brings them agony, and will eventually either kill them… or turn them into beasts.” He took a deep breath. “And then we must kill them.”

“Is there anything we can do? Surely there is some way to break this curse…” Theron asked.

“You would need to go deep into the forest,” Zathrian said. “There, a wolf named Witherfang hunts. It is in him that the curse originated, and only with his heart can it be ended. We have sent hunters out to get it, but… none have come back.”

Theron reached out a hand to gently touch Zathrian’s elbow. “Let us fetch it for you, Keeper. We are Grey Wardens.”

“I couldn’t,” he protested, “there are only two of you! And a dog. I sent a whole group of hunters, da’len, and they did not come back.”

“We have friends,” Theron said, stepping forward. “I am sure we could help.”

“Human friends?” Zathrian asked, dry.

“And elvhen. Even one Qunari.”

This made Zathrian laugh—a short bark, but it happened. “Alright. If you can break this curse, we will gladly help to fight the darkspawn, as we promised so many centuries ago.”

“Ma serannas, Keeper.” Theron inclined his head, and Zathrian sighed.

“It is late in the day, now. Fetch your friends. We can spare space in our camp for those who would help. You can enter the woods tomorrow.”

So we brought our group to the Dalish, who were not particularly welcoming of our human counterparts, though they were friendly enough to us. Darrien and Neria were oddities to them, but treated well enough. Sten, Shale, and the dwarves were met mostly with general indifference.

We sat with Hahren Sarel for a while and he told us stories as well as what he knew of the werewolves and the forest. He was particularly distrustful of the humans in our group, but one of the hunters who joined us calmed him and explained that Sarel had lost his wife to the curse.

“Ir abelas, Hahren. That’s… terrible,” I said.

“Ma serannas, Vir’era.” He sighed, and spoke little for the rest of the night.

Neria spoke up, asking about Aneirin. I hadn’t heard Wynne speaking about him yet, but—well, a person can’t be everywhere at once. Neria and Daylen were closer to her, anyways. I was more likely to hear things from Zevran or Morrigan. Well, maybe less so Morrigan now that our lessons seemed to be over.

We didn’t eat with the clan, but we did speak with many of them. I mostly stuck with Theron and Zevran. At one point, one of the younger elves—judging by his lack of vallaslin—asked me about Littlefoot. “Isn’t that a—a war dog?” he asked, watching Littlefoot and standing a few feet away.

I nodded, petting Littlefoot’s head. “His name is Littlefoot. He, um, he imprinted on me at Ostagar.” I smiled a little, trying to place why this elf looked familiar. “You can—I mean, he won’t bite. If you want to pet him. Unless you try to hurt me.”

“Really?” The young man took his eyes off Littlefoot just long enough to look me in the eye. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Littlefoot, play nice.” I patted my dog’s back and he approached the elf with his tongue lolling. One tentative hand rubbed his head, and the tension started to slip.

“I’m, uh. I’m Cammen,” he said, looking at me again, then glancing at Theron and Zevran. “You’re the Grey Wardens, right?”

I nodded again. “I’m Vir’era.”

Zevran grinned. “I am not a Grey Warden, though these two are. My name is Zevran.”

“And I’m Theron,” Theron finished. “Vir’era and I are from Clan Sabrae under Keeper Marethari.”

Cammen continued to pet Littlefoot, growing more bold with each moment. “I’m a hunter apprentice,” he said. He sighed, looking at Dar’Misu on Theron’s hip. “I wish I could be a real hunter.”

“Why can’t you?” Theron asked.

Cammen sighed. “I’ve been an apprentice for too long. I was hoping to complete my hunt while we were here, but with the werewolves…” He shrugged. “But the real problem is Gheyna.” He turned his head to aim a lovelorn stare over his shoulder at a bench where a young elf woman was talking to an elder.

“Girl problems, I see?” Zevran leaned forward to see Gheyna, a smirk solidly sitting on his face.

“She’s my heart’s desire,” Cammen lamented, “but she refuses to bond with me because I am still an apprentice. She calls me a child.” He punched the ground, startling Littlefoot a bit. “I am no child! If I could only hunt, I could prove that, but I cannot hunt and—” He huffed. “Gheyna will never bond with me. I feel so helpless…”

Then, realizing who he’d just said all this to, he blushed and waved a hand. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Just leave me to my misery.”

Zevran tutted, earning a glare in response. “There must be some way to solve your problem, my friend.”

“You think I haven’t thought about this? There’s nothing I can do!”

“Have you tried wooing her?” Zevran asked.

“Wooing her?” Cammen furrowed his brows. “I do not understand.”

“You know, gifts and poetry. Telling her she is beautiful above all else.” Zevran winked. “Like this!” He turned to Theron, taking Theron’s cheek in his hand to bring the man to face him. “You are the most handsome elf I have ever met, myself included.” Theron’s face went bright red and I giggled.

Cammen was also pink. “N-no—I mean, gifts would be inappropriate before we are bonded, and—and I have serenaded her and spoken with her under the moonlight, but none of it makes any difference! I am still not a hunter, and she will not bond with an apprentice.”

Zevran sighed. “Then I suppose it is too much to think you have bedded her, hm?”

Cammen made flabbergasted sounds in response.

Zevran started to suggest something else, but Theron cut him off. “Perhaps,” he said, face still red but settling down, “we could speak to Gheyna on your behalf?”

Cammen stared at Theron. “You would do that?” Theron nodded. “Serannas! Oh, ma serannas! I will pray to the goddess of love that you are successful!”

As we started walking away, I covered my giggle. Theron pouted at Zevran, who shrugged. “I did not say anything that was not true.” I laughed as Zevran grinned and Theron sputtered.

“You—you’re not bad yourself,” he finally managed, making Zevran beam and laugh loudly. Hearing this, Theron laughed, too.

Behind them, I smiled and patted Littlefoot’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo shit guys sorry this is comin in so late on friday when usually i ... kind of try to make it earlier. just got back from st louis and so i'm kinda on vacation time still. forgot it was friday.
> 
> kitty vir'era looks as such: [meow](http://www.ahomls.com/gracie_small.JPG)
> 
> other news: next week, there will not be a typical update here. that isn't to say there won't be an update, just that it won't be... here. it'll be as a different fic, in the same universe. a side thing i did bc i get bored on the bus. but i'm posting it separately bc it is separate and i'm not updating here bc i need another week to keep all my writing straight hahahah (HAHHA get it straight lmfao as if)


	9. werewolves!!!!!

Gheyna and Cammen got their happily ever after, of course—Zevran seemed to make it his personal mission, and with Theron to meld Zevran’s more insistent methods with the traditions of the Dalish, it went swimmingly. I tagged along behind them, not really saying anything but enjoying the company. But after that, the sun went down, and it came to be time to sleep.

We awoke as the sun rose and packed our things once more. After briefly speaking with Zathrian, he agreed to allow Bodhan and Sandal to stay and trade with the clan until our return. Not knowing how long it would take, though, or how deep into the forest we would need to travel, we packed food enough for a couple days.

As we prepared, Athras came and spoke in quiet urgence to Theron, who nodded tightly to his words, answering with a few of his own and a reassuring hand on Athras’ arm. When he came back to us, his face was dark. “We should search for a woman named Danyla,” he murmured. I swallowed dry but nodded. “She may be a werewolf.”

We passed Elora and the agitated halla on our way out, and the sight made me pause. I started to walk to the halla, but stopped; Theron noticed, and went forward instead. “Is she alright?” he asked Elora.

Elora jumped, a hand flying to her chest. “Oh!” she said. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see anyone—this halla…” She sighed. “I’m Elora, the clan’s halla keeper. This one’s upset, and I think she may have been injured in the attacks, but I can’t find where, and she won’t calm down for me…”

“Perhaps we can help?” Theron offered. “I’m no halla keeper, but my friend, Vir’era, is a shape-shifter and good with animals.” He smiled a bit. “Better with them than people, really.” I poked him in the side, but he just shrugged.

It was true, really.

Elora looked at me with wide eyes, and I managed a tiny smile. She stepped back slightly and gestured to the halla, nodding. I crouched down a bit to make myself smaller and approached with one hand out. I let the halla sniff me, and then I stroked her neck.

“Aneth ara,” I murmured. She snorted, stomping her front hooves. I stayed still but for the hand that continued to stroke her neck. “It’s okay. I want to help.” I concentrated on my own breathing, trying very hard to exude a calm aura. The worries and fears of the clan as a result of the werewolves were like sulfur in the air, and did not help this poor halla.

I felt the eyes of several people on me like stones on my shoulders, but I kept steady for the halla. She scuffed the ground with a hoof, but it was less insistent than before, and she stopped snorting. Her breathing was heavy still, but it started to slow. She let out one last deep sigh and then rubbed her cheek against mine. I smiled. “Ma serannas,” I told her. “Tell Elora what is wrong?”

I let her go to bump Elora, and Elora wilted in relief. “Oh, ma serannas, Vir’era,” she said to me. “I’ve been so worried. I guess that didn’t help, did it? It isn’t her who is injured, but her lifemate.” She smiled. “This will help greatly to keep the halla safe.”

I blushed and stood up, stumbling backwards a little in the effort. “I’m glad.” My voice was quiet, but it didn’t falter, and that was enough for me.

“We must go now, but I hope all goes well, Elora.” Theron inclined his head to her, and she did the same.

“Dareth shiral. Mythal protect you.” She waved us off, and as we turned, I noticed our group discussing what seemed to be strategy as they waited by the camp’s edge. A few Dalish wished us well, but most were going about their business. Maybe no one had been watching me after all.

 

We trekked into the forest, and were immediately accosted by a small band of wolves—wolves and werewolves and Blight-wolves. They took us fully by surprise, and Theron, standing at the front, was scratched deep in his arm before we could defend ourselves. He shouted in pain and drew Dar’Misu with his good hand, using the motion to land a significant cut on his assailant in the process.

Neria screamed as a werewolf jumped at her, but Alistair tackled it out of the way, landing with crunching and clanging sounds on the ground. Castor grabbed Darrien out of the way of a wolf, and Shale crushed its head with no small amount of glee. “They are not birds,” she declared, “but dogs are little better!”

Littlefoot engaged a Blight-wolf running at me and I cast a spell of haste. The werewolves were fast—I heard Zevran grunt and glanced over to see him rolling on the forest floor. He regained his footing soon, but there was blood in his hair.

“Vir’era! Duck!” I didn’t look around, choosing instead to immediately follow Capella’s command. Four arrows in rapid fire zipped through the place my head had been, landing with wet thunks in their mark. I watched the wolf fall, but as I began to stand a werewolf vaulted over the body and over me, claws reached out. It snarled and Capella screamed.

I turned and cast a paralyzing glyph under the werewolf’s feet, but I was too late. Capella had a hand over her eye, and blood was slipping between her fingers. Frozen, I watched Alistair yell furiously and shield-bash the werewolf before drawing his sword up its length, cutting off the head for good measure. “Capella!”

“Ella?” Castor’s voice echoed Alistair’s, and immediately was followed by Darrien’s cry of, “Dammit, Castor!”

Unable to cast into the fray without possibly causing harm to one of my friends, I turned to where the attackers had come from and sent a fireball roaring through. I heard yelping in its wake, then silence. Littlefoot, having defeated the Blight-wolf with only superficial bites, ran to investigate.

Rocks crushing flesh were the last sounds before a moment of tense panting. Littlefoot came back and snuffled, but nothing followed him. I turned to the rest of the group. Shale was using nearby leaves to clean various viscera from her rocks, radiating a pleased aura. Zevran was helping Theron to staunch the bleeding in his arm, and Wynne was standing over Capella, making worried sounds.

“I don’t know if the scratch carries the curse,” she said, gently pulling Capella’s hands from her face. She looked at Alistair. “Fetch some water to clean her up, would you?”

As she worked on Capella, I used what little healing knowledge I had to fix up Littlefoot’s injuries. They were minor enough that I didn’t need Wynne’s help, or Daylen’s, though they may have been healed faster or simply better. Littlefoot didn’t seem to mind, though.

“Well, our goal is to break it, anyway,” Capella reasoned. “I’m more worried about making sure I can still see.”

Wynne laughed. “You’re a practical one, aren’t you?”

“Don’t get her started,” Castor said, sitting close and staring intently. “I swear, she’d probably sacrifice me if it seemed the logical choice.”

“Only if I had to, brother mine.” Capella started to smirk, but winced. “Maker, but that hurts.”

Wynne hummed. “I think most of the damage missed your eye itself, my dear.” She started to heal the wound, a small light emitting from her hand as she did so, and frowned. “It does not quite want to heal, though. If that’s the curse or simply my age…”

Daylen crouched by her, adding his magic for a moment. “Curse,” he decided. “I’m going to help Theron.” Wynne nodded, and he walked away, apparently satisfied that he couldn’t be of help here.

“I’m afraid this may scar,” Wynne told Capella.

Capella sighed. “At least I’ll look dangerous still.”

“Dangerous and beautiful,” Alistair corrected, handing Wynne a wet cloth. “Though you already had the beautiful part down.” Capella smiled briefly before wincing again. Wynne tutted, wiping away the blood and finishing as much of the healing as she could.

Morrigan caught my eye and made exaggerated gagging motions. I laughed, and shoulders started to relax. I checked on Theron, who shrugged with one shoulder as Daylen healed his arm.

“This was just a regular wolf, I’m guessing?” Daylen asked, and Theron nodded. “It’s healing easily enough. Might be a little scar for a while, but nothing much.”

“Pity,” Zevran said. “I think you’d look quite dashing with a scar.”

“Well, I think I’m dashing enough without one,” Theron replied.

“True.”

Daylen groaned. “Can you not wait until, I don’t know, I’m far away to do that?”

Zevran grinned. “What, are you jealous? You’re quite handsome yourself, but I do not wish to make the Witch of the Wilds angered if she thinks I overstep my bounds, you see?”

“What?” Daylen asked, then shook his head. “Wait, you know what, no, I don’t want to know. Just shut up and let me heal your head. Maybe you have a concussion.”

“He’s always like that.” I batted my eyes innocently when Zevran feigned hurt.

Daylen pouted, looking at me. “I know, but a man can hope, right?”

“A man can also hope for gold to fall from the sky,” Zevran said. “That does not mean it will be true.” He just grinned wider when Daylen threw his hands up.

“That’s it!” he said. “I’m done here! You’re not bleeding anymore, he’s all healed, and that one wasn’t even hurt—I’m going! You can finish healing the old-fashioned way.”

Zevran laughed, apparently unconcerned. Wynne made the rounds, ensuring everyone really was healed and no one was hiding a wound that could become infected (Darrien made that mistake once—but only once). Capella used the flat of her dagger to get a glimpse of her new scar before we continued on. It was a long one, starting over her eyebrow and sliding over her right eye to catch her cheekbone, ending halfway down her cheek. Her cheekbone and brow were pronounced enough that the claw had not caught her eye, and I marveled at her luck for that.

As soon as Wynne was satisfied that no one else was hurt, we gathered ourselves and forged on once more. Theron and I stood at the front. Being Dalish, we were expected to know the forest best—and while it was certainly true for Theron, I spent most of my time feigning familiarity.

We came to the Elder Tree’s clearing soon enough, and it was easy to agree to his request. I mentioned, as we left, that helping the Elder Tree recover his acorn would bring the forest to allow us passage in places it might otherwise turn us around, and that was enough.

And then we were attacked again; but we were more prepared for it this time, and there were only three werewolves, no Blight-wolves and no regular wolves. I wondered how much farther we would need to go to meet Swiftrunner as we walked carefully over the bodies.

Soon there was the sound of running water, of a small waterfall jumping over rocks down to the creek that continued it. We came to a small cliff-edge, and I knew that upstream Swiftrunner would intercept us.

“Wait,” I said. “There is something you should know.”

“What is it?” Alistair asked, as everyone turned to me.

“The werewolves are…” I paused, struggling for the words. “I mean, they’re not—they’re not just beasts, and—and while I don’t think their attacks, their violence has been justified—their anger…” I huffed, banging my staff against the forest floor. “Their anger makes sense, and we should listen to them.”

“Are you saying they can talk?” Castor asked, crossing his arms.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Fucking great,” Darrien said, but sighed heavily. “They ever going to try talking to us without, you know, ripping out our damn throats first?”

I stared upstream, towards the sound of the waterfall. “Soon. Swiftrunner will meet us.”

“Then we should move.” Sten gestured for Theron to take the lead again, looking in the same direction as me. We walked.

We reached the waterfall, and werewolves ran up to us. “Halt, brothers and sisters!” said the one in the lead. Swiftrunner, I decided. “Why do you defend the Dalish?” he demanded.

“I am Dalish,” Theron said. “They are not my clan, but still I would defend them. But it would seem we were lied to—we were not told you could speak.”

“Zathrian is a fool,” Swiftrunner growled, hunched forward. The words clawed their way from his throat to our ears, painful and grinding. “He sent you, didn’t he?”

“We don’t want to fight!” I interrupted, quickly, but fell silent when Swiftrunner’s eyes cut into my skin.

“Neither do we, but we must. Zathrian,” and the word was growled with more hatred than anything else, “must pay for what he has done. He has killed my brothers and sisters, and now we take our retribution.”

One of the werewolves behind Swiftrunner snarled, leaning towards us, but did not dare pass him. Capella stepped forward. “We would like to speak with your leader.”

“Lies!” Swiftrunner said. “You would take Witherfang’s heart. That is what Zathrian wants. You will not have it!”

“We want only peace!” she insisted, and he paused.

“Peace,” he spat. “It will not happen. Zathrian has assured that. But the forest will protect us—we retreat! Come, brothers and sisters!” They loped off with discordant howls. Theron started to run after them, but Capella caught his arm.

“He said ‘the forest will protect us.’” She looked at me. “It’s time to find that acorn, isn’t it?”

I nodded, and Theron relaxed, but continued glaring after the werewolves. “I don’t like this,” he said. He looked at me. “Vir’era…”

“I promise,” I said, loud enough that everyone could hear me, “this is the best way. There will be less bloodshed. It will be alright.” I was glad none of them could hear my heart pound as the words left my mouth. They had to believe me, even if I was worried. They had to.

More werewolves attacked us as we continued eastwards, but in smaller groups, and I doubted they were trying to actually stop us. There were enough that they could have tried to overwhelm us, to surprise us again like that first fight. But they didn’t.

After one battle, we paused to eat. It was almost impossible to see the position of the sun through the heavy foliage, but the best guess put it at least near its apex. Most of the sunlight seemed to come from directly overhead as it dribbled past layers of leaves to settle on the roots and dirt below.

Our eastward trek took us to a tree with ironbark and then to a small section of Tevinter ruins. Sitting near them was Aneirin. We quietly allowed him and Wynne a short reunion, but we couldn’t dawdle and he seemed to understand without needing to be told.

Just beyond the ruins was the hermit. I never did understand his purpose in the games—only once had I managed to get the acorn without killing him for it. He stared at us, hair wild. I could see dirt streaks on his face, too regular to be unintentional, and he crouched over a staff that he held close to his body.

“Who goes there?” he demanded, voice short and sharp.

“Grey Wardens,” Alistair answered. Capella grabbed his arm, and he half-turned to her.

“Who sent you?” the hermit asked, his eyes growing wider as he took in the entirety of our group. His eyes lingered on Sten and on Shale; humans and elves were common enough in the Brecilian forest, but Qunari and golems were not. “Did they send you? Did they find me? They’ll never have me!”

He started to rant, voice spasming from loud to soft with no notice as he paced and waved his arms about. I had trouble keeping up with his words; they were so much different from the game and he half-slurred in his madness. Unintelligible sounds slipped forth to accuse and accost us.

“What the fuck,” Darrien said. Castor snorted.

Daylen motioned his hand around the hermit’s campsite, then mimed walking. Neria nodded, but Theron stopped them. “Wait.” He jerked his head at the hermit. “He is the one the Elder Tree spoke of.”

Daylen groaned. “You sure?”

Theron paused, but I nodded. “Theron’s right. He has the acorn.”

“Dammit.”

“What are you saying?” The hermit stood in front of Daylen suddenly, leaning into his space and breathing heavily. “What plots have you designed? Did they follow you here, are they waiting now?” He spun around. He looked at all the trees and bushes near and he growled. “You will not have me! You will not! You will not!”

And then he attacked us.

 

With no choice but to kill the hermit to stop him, it was easy enough to get the acorn and take it back to the Elder Tree, though backtracking almost half a day’s walk was not something I’d hoped would happen. We wound up camping at the Elder Tree’s base, with his permission, as it had grown dark while we approached him again.

“It shouldn’t be too far from that ruin,” I reassured the group quietly while we ate.

“I hope you’re right,” Alistair said, and sighed down at his food.

Capella looked to him. The small fire we had lit (carefully distant from the roots of the Elder Tree) made her scar seem more intense than the daylight had. Shadows caught on the puckered skin at its edges, and the new-pink shade of the skin was paler than the rest of her face. Combined with her heterochromia, it almost looked as though someone had torn out the blue eye meant to be there and replaced it with a green one.

It was a good thing Castor didn’t have a matching scar, I thought. It would be harder to remind myself that their eyes were natural if that were the case.

“After this,” Leliana started, “could we… go to Denerim? I would like to end this game with Marjolaine, and it is not far from the Brecilian Forest.”

Capella took a bite of her stew and Castor shrugged. Daylen half-nodded. “I think it would be best,” Neria said. “We can’t risk that she may send more assassins after you if we don’t.”

There was some murmuring of agreement. “After that…” Alistair stared into the fire. “We should go back to Ostagar. That man from Bann Loren’s lands… He said there were important documents of King Cailan’s in a chest.”

“I agree.” Capella put a hand on Alistair’s arm. “And if Cailan is still there…”

“We’ll give him a proper funeral,” Castor said. “He was a good man.” Next to him, Darrien nodded. I blinked at this and wondered when he had started to feel anything other than generic displeasure and discontent towards human nobility. I had thought Capella and especially Castor were exceptions because, as Grey Wardens, we were ostensibly all equal. Perhaps not.

Morrigan snorted into her bowl at the idea of giving King Cailan a funeral. She said nothing, however, and the night finished quietly. We didn’t bother setting up tents; there wasn’t enough room for that with the trees. I didn’t like the idea of sleeping so vulnerably, but with Littlefoot’s solid presence near my feet, I was able to sleep until I was woken for the final watch in the morning.

 

As the day started to grow late, we reached the windy vortex that should have sent us tumbling back somewhere far-off in the forest. I could hear it rushing, like a waterfall breaking on rocks, so close to us. We rounded a tree, one which luckily enough did not start to attack us in retaliation for our mere existence, and... We were stopped. A werewolf on her knees, panting heavily with the effort of control, looked at us and started to cry. "Please," she said, "kill me."

It was Danyla, of course. I gasped and walked to her. "Danyla, no--we--we can save you, we can break this curse, please, your husband--"

She wouldn't hear it, letting out a howl that started my tears down my cheeks. "I cannot live like this! I cannot live anymore! Witherfang cannot be killed, the curse cannot be broken. Please, please, take this scarf to my husband. Tell him--tell him I am dead and that I love him."

"Danyla..." Theron started, and she turned her baleful gaze to him.

"Kill me, please. End my misery."

"I..." I backed away, burying my face in Littlefoot's fur. I couldn't watch. I knew she would fight us if we refused--I had hoped, had prayed that we could persuade her otherwise, that we could talk her into living just a while longer, just until we could break this terrible curse, but... Alas, we couldn't. I felt someone come and put their arm around me, their face against my hair, and soon I heard the thud of a weapon in flesh, and the answering thud of flesh hitting dirt. Danyla was dead.

I looked at the person who had come to hide with me: Theron. Tears slid over his vallaslin as he met my eyes, and I hugged him. We held each other for a moment, mourning her unnecessary death, and then we stood. I wiped my cheeks with my sleeves, and he started to use the back of his gloves. Zevran stopped him, taking a small cloth from his pouch to gently pat the tears away. "I am sorry," he said.

Theron smiled, a small thing. "Ma serannas."

Alistair put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "You going to be alright?" he asked. I nodded, unable to bring myself to smile.

"Too many of our kind have died. We must stop this curse." Alistair's lips turned up, and I heard Capella snort.

We moved on to the vortex, and with the Elder tree’s branch, we passed through safely. The werewolves were predictably displeased, and their cries of outrage accompanied their attacks.

They were more ferocious now, with their teeth bared entirely to the world and claws scrabbling for any skin they could reach. I felt the shields I’d cast around my friends shudder, barely blunting the blows. They would have bruises, but at least they were not bleeding. Alistair and Sten yelled right back in the creatures’ faces; the metal of Alistair’s helmet reverberated with the sound, echoing it oddly.

Swiftrunner called his siblings to protect the Lady, and they howled in unison. An arrow, glistening with something sickening, slid through the air and through the arm of one werewolf, planting itself in the leg of another. Loud yelps followed its passing, and I heard Capella laugh.

I redoubled the effort of my shields, but as Darrien swung his sword in an arc at any animal around him, a white wolf ran forth and stopped the battle. “Witherfang,” I whispered, and then he was gone, and so were the werewolves.

“What was that?” Neria asked in the silence.

“If that wasn’t Witherfang,” Castor said, “I’ll eat my dagger.”

They looked at me, and I wondered why I had ever said anything about knowing what happened in Thedas. I sighed. “Yes, that was Witherfang.”

“Well, there’s no point in just standing here and gawking after the damn thing,” Darrien said, using his greatsword to gesture towards the ruined temple ahead of us. “Shall we get this over with?”

“He has a point.” With that simple comment, Morrigan was striding ahead of everyone else. Though I couldn’t see her eyes, it wasn’t hard to imagine that she was gazing at the architecture of the ruins and trying to explain them.

We all followed her.

 

Walking inside, I felt the air change around me into something older and heavier. I could just about smell the remnants of old magic clinging to the walls and stone, disturbed only by our footsteps, which echoed. Labored breathing warned us when werewolves approached, but they were in a full-scale retreat now; they did not attack in large groups.

We explored the ruins quietly, to attract as little attention to ourselves as we could. I stared at everything I could, trying to remember everything I knew about this temple, but I knew very little. Somewhere, there was the Arcane Warrior specialization. Somewhere else was a tablet depicting a prayer ritual to gain access to the juggernaut armor in the—

The grave.

My foot caught on a root that had thrust its way up through cracks in the stone and I nearly fell. “Vir’era!” Theron said, catching my arm and balancing me. “Are you alright?”

I swallowed and looked at him. “This is an elvhen ruin.” He nodded.

“The statues made that obvious enough, I would think,” Morrigan said, crossing her arms.

“This was a place for Uthenera,” I corrected. “The eternal slumber.”

“And yet,” she said, “it looks Tevinter.”

“We should be careful,” I insisted, ignoring her for now. I looked at the group, and most just shrugged back at me. “Extra careful, that is.”

“What’s Uthenera?” Neria asked, as we started to walk once more—albeit more slowly than before.

I ran my hand over my staff, my eyes catching on a sarcophagus. I clenched my teeth and looked at Neria instead. “Long ago, our ancestors were immortal,” I explained. “And when they tired of life, they would enter Uthenera, the eternal slumber. Like death, but…” I waved a hand. “But not. Some woke from Uthenera to share the wisdom Dirthamen had granted them in their dreams. Some did not.”

I looked at another sarcophagus ahead of us. “Those who did are dead now.”

“How?” she asked, tugging the sleeve of my robe to bring my attention back to her.

“Some were killed in their sleep, I suspect,” I murmured. “By the Tevinter Imperium, after… after the fall of Arlathan. Some quickened and died in their sleep.”

“Quickened?” Darrien asked, looking over his shoulder.

I smiled a little and nodded. “That’s what it was called, when the lifespan of the elvhen became mortal, became shorter like the shemlen. Now, we live the same length.”

“Except that clan thinks Zathrian rediscovered the old ways, and he’s been their Keeper for centuries,” Neria said.

I pursed my lips and sighed. “Zathrian has not become immortal like the ancient elves. He… is still alive because of a curse. The curse he cast on Witherfang, which started this very turmoil.”

“Zathrian made the werewolves?” Castor’s voice surprised me; I hadn’t known he was listening.

“In a sense. I—the Lady will explain it all, I promise. We just…” I gestured to the stairs ahead of us. “We just need to get to her.” He nodded, and we descended the stairs.

I’d forgotten about the undead. The skeletons which attacked us took me by surprise—enough so that I was scraped by a poorly-aimed arrow before I could put up my shields. At least they were easy to down, though; a hard blow would break whatever magic connected their bones and send them clattering into piles on the floor.

Perhaps I should have been glad they were mostly just bone. The undead of Inquisition, rising from the waters of the Fallow Mire and Old Crestwood… those had flesh. Would have flesh? (Was it past tense to speak of the game, I wondered briefly, or should it be future tense for things which would occur only later in the Dragon Age?)

When we found the room which held the gem of the spirit that could bestow the knowledge of the Arcane Warrior, Neria touched the gem before I could say anything. Daylen started to reprimand her, but then she turned and smiled at us, and explained what it was.

“Take its offer,” I said. “Learn the way of the Arcane Warrior, the Dirth’ena Enasalin.”

Nothing seemed to happen, but from the look of wonder on Neria’s face, I decided that something must have been exchanged between the gem and the mage that I could not see. Then, with a whispered goodbye, she set the gem on the altar to our left, and it exploded.

“Yeah, okay, what just happened?” Darrien asked. “Seriously.”

I continued to stare at the altar, my heart aching for the poor soul who had waited so long for that moment, and Neria answered. “He was elvhen,” she murmured, “during the fall of Arlathan. There was a lot of fighting here, and he escaped into the gem because he thought someone would come to help later, but no one did. So, in exchange for release… he taught me to be Dirth’ena Enasalin. An Arcane Warrior.”

The airiness of her voice proved how highly she regarded this. While I hadn’t really expected her—or anyone else—to become an Arcane Warrior, the sheer respect she held for the position convinced me that it was, indeed, given to the right person.

I smiled at Neria. “You will make our ancestors proud, I think. One of the elvhen continuing a tradition.”

She beamed at me, and we continued ever onward. We came upon the boy eternally searching for his mother, and I started to cry. It’s hard to cast when you’re crying. The Arcane Horror landed a force spell on me, pushing me over and sending me across the floor.

Littlefoot stood over me after that, until the battle was done, and I wiped my face on my robes, quickly healing what tiny scratches the uneven tiles had given me. “Vir’era!” Theron called, running over. “What happened?”

I blushed, looking at my feet. “I—um—the little boy, I just… Ir abelas, Theron, I just can’t… This is a place of sadness.”

He hugged me. “Maybe we should call it Abelasan,” he agreed. I said nothing. I couldn’t tell him of the Vir’abelasan. What good would the knowledge do him? I just nodded, and we continued through the ruins.


	10. FUN SHIT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooooo!!!! man thanks peeps! i'm very delighted to announce this fic has achieved 30 kudos, which feels like a lot to me, since this fic also originated as self-satisfying bullshit.
> 
> as thanks and as celebratory shit, i've made [a post](http://dinosaurdragon.tumblr.com/post/125565344986/so-this-is-the-cast-of-characters-ive-created-for) over on [my tumblr](http://dinosaurdragon.tumblr.com) [/shameless plug]. -cough- anyway this post has some pictures of the cast. the wardens minus alistair, that is. it also features the dwarves, who haven't been introduced here just yet, but i promise they're coming. consider it a sneak peak!

As we continued walking through the ruins, I concentrated on my breathing and calmed myself down. We reached the lair of the werewolves without further incident, and while I was still uneasy, still could feel the pressure of lives ended too soon, I was able to avoid being so easily caught off guard. The werewolves’ attacks were easier to predict, anyhow; Arcane Horrors had less pattern.

Sten beheaded the last werewolf in the first maze-like room and we headed grimly forward. I could feel my jaw start to ache from how I clenched it, and forced myself to relax. Littlefoot whined and pressed against my leg; through our comrades, I could just make out Swiftrunner standing still with two of his “siblings” blocking our path forward, though they made no move to attack.

“Stop!” I heard him say. Capella slipped through the gaps between our warriors to stand and face him; I followed in her shadow.

“The Lady would speak with you,” Swiftrunner growled. “She would end this fighting.” His eyes flashed bright, and I wondered what he thought of her orders.

Capella smiled. Her shoulders sagged from their normal squareness and an air of relief spread out from her. I tried not to stare. This was not the Capella I knew or was used to, but Swiftrunner stopped gnashing his teeth in response, and I wondered if that was her intent.

“That is all we wanted,” Capella said, and her voice could have convinced an insomniac to sleep. “Can you promise we will not be harmed as we speak with your Lady?”

Swiftrunner’s eyes lingered on each of our weapons, and he stared outright at the blood still on Sten’s blade. “Can you promise the same?” he challenged.

Now Capella looked at us. One by one, weapons were sheathed. Shale refused to meet Capella’s eyes until even Sten’s blade was wiped and sheathed. Even then, the golem first gave him an unimpressed stare before nodding once to Capella, who smiled once more before turning to face Swiftrunner with all the gravity the situation demanded. “On my honor, we will not attack but to defend ourselves. We have come for peace, not war.”

Swiftrunner sniffed at the mention of honor, but he turned on his—well, not heel, I don’t know that werewolves have heels, but he turned sharply and led us past yet more sarcophagi and into the room where the Lady of the Forest awaited our party.

The Lady of the Forest in person was stunning. And not in the sexual way that the game had attempted; though she still wore no clothes, her nakedness was not sensual but simply natural. The roots that wound up her legs felt less erotic than expected, seeming instead more like braces. Her hair was long and dark, but it was not sleek and not placed so deliberately to conveniently hide her nipples. She was thin and willowy, and her skin was the color of moss on stone; her eyes were the black of forest shadows at night.

“Welcome,” she greeted. Her voice was soft and sweet.

“Lady, I do not think this is wise,” Swiftrunner pleaded, eyes on the floor in front of him as he bowed to her.

“Hush, Swiftrunner.” She ran one hand through his fur, then looked at our group again. “He is only worried. But I would show him there is no need to be.”

Capella nodded. “Of course.”

The Lady smiled. “Tell me,” she said, walking to stand in front of us more directly, “what do you know of this curse?”

Capella glanced at me, but I said nothing. She did not prompt me, instead continuing to be the voice of our party. “We know that Zathrian started the curse, and that his life is tied to it. We know that he has said he could break it with Witherfang’s heart.”

Castor then said, “You’re Witherfang, aren’t you, Lady?”

“Yes.” She smiled again. She had a smile like sunlight through leaves—no, more like what I had once learned was called ‘komorebi’ in Japanese, what was harder to translate to English. “Zathrian made a curse, centuries ago, which bound me to a white wolf. This is an old forest, mortal, and I am its spirit, its heart.”

“But why did he make this curse?” Castor asked.

The Lady paused and stared over our heads for a moment. “Centuries ago,” she said, words even slower than before, “Zathrian was newly Keeper, and his clan came to stay in the Forest. But a tribe of humans lived here, and they were not pleased. They captured his family, tortured and murdered his son, and then raped his daughter. The Dalish were able to rescue her, but when she learned that she had become pregnant, she killed herself out of shame.”

I swallowed hard, and heard Neria gasp. The Lady turned to face the tree, wrapping her arms around herself. “Intent on revenge, Zathrian summoned me, the spirit of this forest, and he bound me to the body of a wolf.” She looked at us, meeting each of our eyes. “That is what created the monster known as Witherfang. And so long as the curse exists… so does Zathrian.”

“Why did you not ask him to end the curse?” Daylen asked. “Why attack him and his people?”

“We have asked,” the Lady replied. “Every time that his clan has come to this forest, we have sent a message, asking him to end the curse. Every time, he has ignored it. We will no longer be ignored. We want only the end of the curse, but if we must fight to make him face what he has done, then so be it.”

“What would you have us do?” Castor asked. He had come up silently to stand proudly by his sister.

The Lady graced him with a smile. “Bring Zathrian here. I wish only to talk to him, to perhaps convince him to end the curse.”

Castor nodded. “We can do that.”

The Lady raised one arm to indicate a path to the side of the room. “There is a shortcut here, a path back to the first room of the temple. We will await your return, Wardens.”

How she knew that we were Grey Wardens, I was unsure, but we left her then. The werewolves paid us little to no mind; only Swiftrunner continued to watch as we ascended the stairs to reach the temple entrance.

I wondered, as we climbed, if we would need to backtrack through the forest to find Zathrian, but we did not. Just as in Origins, the Keeper was waiting for us in the center of the room. He stared around him, both hands on his staff (made from dahl’amythal wood, I remembered, the tree of Mythal). His gaze was on the floor, where the remains of the werewolves we had killed as we entered had been left untouched. Beside them, some mauled Dalish hunters began to rot.

I forced my eyes back to Zathrian’s face and saw him close his tightly before apparently hearing our approach and turning to face us. “Wardens.”

“Zathrian?” Theron asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to be sure that Witherfang was killed, and you survived the process.” He looked closer at us, peering at our sheathed weapons, and frowned. “You have killed Witherfang, have you not?”

I shivered at his voice, which had become cold like a river frozen in winter. Theron shook his head, and answered, “No, we have not, Keeper.” His voice was gentle, and almost sounded guilty, but his shoulders were straight.

“Why not?” Zathrian demanded. “Have you sided with them? Do you not care for the plight of our people, da’len?” I had never heard the endearment used like a weapon, but it was as sharp then as any blade. When Zathrian looked to me, I jumped and stumbled back. Alistair came to stand in front of me, blocking me from view.

“We met the Lady of the Forest,” Capella said, conversational like speaking of the weather, “and she told us how the curse came to be, and that you refuse to end it.”

“Ha!” Though I could not see him around Alistair, and did not have enough desire to move to rectify that, I could hear the sound of Zathrian pacing as he declared his displeasure. “You do realize that she is actually Witherfang?”

“Yes, and she admitted as much.” Capella flicked her bangs away from her face, and I could imagine she was showing off her new scar. I didn’t hear Zathrian react, but Alistair snorted, so it could only have been successful. “Come, now, Zathrian,” Capella wheedled. “What harm would it do to talk?”

“She wants to ‘talk,’ does she?” His reply wasn’t delayed. “How do I know it isn’t a trap? How do you? They want to lure me there, and finish their own revenge.”

“Fuck revenge,” Darrien said, suddenly. I blinked and looked over to him; he had his arms crossed and was glaring at Zathrian. “Isn’t that how this all started anyway? What good does revenge do? The humans who hurt your family are all dead bastards by now. What’s the point in keeping this bullshit going?”

_“You weren’t there!”_ The shout was so fierce, so sharp, that I jumped again. I heard a loud bang, like Zathrian had driven his staff down onto the temple floor in his fury. “You did not see what they did! My fury is eternal, and so is my revenge!”

_“They’re dead!”_ Darrien shouted right back, and then he stomped his own foot, maybe in mimicry. “The humans who hurt you are dead! I know humans can be real assholes, but you—” He yelled incoherently and threw his hands up, then took a deep breath and continued. “My friend Shianni told me once that we must make our lives better. The Hahren said punishing all humans for the mistakes of a few would not help. I thought he was stupid, because all humans have been involved somehow in our oppression, but you are what he warned of!”

And Zathrian was quiet. And Darrien panted, but said nothing more. The silence reigned.

“Just talk to the Lady,” Capella proposed, and held her right hand up. “You will not come to harm. It is not a trap, and we will be with you.”

Zathrian stared at her. Silence pressed in, and he glanced to Darrien before speaking once more. “And if you are wrong? Will you protect me?”

“On my honor.” Her words were a dare. Darrien huffed, but nodded when Capella looked at him.

Silence again.

A sigh. “Fine,” Zathrian said. “I do not know what it will accomplish, but… I will speak with this Lady of the Forest.”

I let out the breath I hadn’t known I was holding, and Capella led the way back down to the Lady and the werewolves’ lair. I shuffled to the back of the group, but I could see Zathrian at the front with Capella. He moved stiffly, and his shoulders were slightly hunched, but he continued forward.

He called the Lady Witherfang when we entered again, and as the werewolves growled and snarled and leaned close enough to smell their foul breath, he kept his composure. The Lady was unsurprised at our swift return; perhaps, as the spirit of the forest, she had known he was so close at hand. Perhaps she was simply good at masking emotions.

“Zathrian,” she greeted, and they started their competition of words. She pleaded for him to end the curse, and he denied her at every turn. She kept Swiftrunner at bay, and he used that to ask if they were not truly beasts.

“They have their humanity still,” she insisted, and he scoffed. “They chose their names for themselves.”

“They are beasts,” he countered, “and murderers.”

“Are you not a murderer as well?” I held my breath.

“This is useless!” Zathrian declared, and turned to Capella.

“Your clan thinks you have rediscovered the old ways, Zathrian, but you have not. So long as this curse exists, you continue to live.” The Lady of the Forest spoke and her voice filled the room, louder now than it had been since the first time she spoke. “Is that why you refuse to end it? Are you afraid to die, Zathrian?”

He cracked his staff against the ground. “I do not fear death! My revenge has not ended, and it never will. I will not end this curse!”

He lifted his staff and summoned spirits into the trees that had grown in this room, awakening wild Sylvans to attack. “Stop!” I said, but it did not work, and I knew it wouldn’t.

“Alistair! Can you— _Alistair!”_ Capella shouted, and I turned in time to see the branch of one sylvan slam into Alistair’s helmet, forcing the metal hard against his head. He crumpled. “Dammit! Stellaluna, keep them off him!”

Stellaluna raced to guard Alistair. I cast a shield over the two of them, and then one over myself and Littlefoot. “Focus on Zathrian!” I called out. “If we stop him, we stop the spells.” Probably, or that’s how I remembered it happening, at least. Not that I told them that part.

Shale tore out a loose tile and flung it at one of the sylvans. Neria sent fire at the other, and it caught. But it was green wood and quickly started to smoke profusely. “Shit,” I whispered, and looked for Zathrian.

I found him in a throng of angry werewolves, behind a shield that glowed red. He summoned roots from the ground to trip and tangle and trap the werewolves, whose strength was not enough to break his magic. Most were caught, and Zathrian was able to run to a different part of the room, clearer of those who would stop him.

But two can play that game; I cast glyphs of paralysis in his path. Morrigan, seeing my intent, laughed and did the same. His shield could not hold forever, and though it broke the first two glyphs, the third slowed him and he was caught on the fourth. His shield held, though.

I started to ask Wynne if she could revive Alistair, so that he could Cleanse the area around Zathrian, but Neria rushed forward. She swung a sword she must have found on the floor, her staff on her back, and I saw Zathrian focus on her as he fought the paralysis.

Neria was just a distraction, though—Daylen came up behind Zathrian and cast a quick Dispel, causing Zathrian’s shield to melt away and reinforcing the paralyzing glyph. Zathrian was unable to protect himself from the arrow that ripped across his chest, tearing cloth and skin but not burying in his body. His eyes widened.

I put a hand up, and Zathrian looked at me. “Will you stop?” I asked, and everything came to a standstill.

The paralysis glyph faded, and Zathrian fell to the floor. “Yes,” he said. The sylvans stopped attacking, becoming normal trees once more. Neria calmed the flames that still wrapped around the tall branches of one tree, quietly quelling them.

“You are right,” Zathrian said to the Lady. “I am old, and I have forgotten how to forgive. But… I’m ready for this all to end.” Before allowing any response, he held up a hand. “You know this means you will die, too?”

She reached one hand out to touch his arm. “It is thanks to you that I lived as such. Thanks to you, I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life. Yet, of all things, I desire nothing more than an end.”

This was the last reassurance Zathrian needed. With the Lady’s desire for death stated so openly and so bluntly, with full acknowledgment of all it entailed, he began to cast the spell which would end his centuries-old curse.

He slumped onto the ground, dead. The Lady of the Forest became a white wolf, and then she, too, was dead. A moment passed in grave silence before there was a change in the air. The spell passed over those gathered like the static pressure of a coming storm, and in its wake, the werewolves were allowed to be human once more.

They hugged each other and danced and cried in joy, and perhaps in mourning for the Lady of the Forest, who had guided them and was truly the one who allowed this to happen. I smiled at the scene. A happy ending, I thought.

“Thank you,” a voice said, drawing my attention away to where the man who had been Swiftrunner—and perhaps would still use that name—was standing. He took Capella’s hand, then Theron’s—one by one, he held each of our hands, even Shale’s, and thanked us personally.

“What will you do now?” Neria asked, after he had thanked her, and he paused, looking behind him at the other people.

“I don’t know. Maybe find a human settlement, and try to assimilate.” The bright responding faces of his peers indicated that was the preferred eventuality. “Stay together, if we can.”

“I would avoid the rest of Zathrian’s clan, were I you,” Morrigan advised. “Though I doubt they would recognize you now so easily, ‘twould still be unwise to tease their anger.”

Swiftrunner nodded, lips pursed. “We’ll leave soon. No more trouble needs to come of this.”

“There is a Blight in Ferelden now,” Castor added. “It started in the south. Well, further south.”

“Then we’ll go north.” He strode to his group and raised one hand. “Come, brothers and sisters! Let us leave this place, and start anew!”

We watched them go, and I sighed. I looked at Zathrian’s corpse, and was reminded of the rings Dalish Keepers wore. I knelt beside his body to retrieve his, and Theron asked me, “Vir’era, what are you doing?”

“We can’t easily take his body back to the clan.” I unwrapped his hand from his staff. “But we can bring them his ring. Lanaya should have it, anyways. She will be Keeper now.”

“Should we bring his staff, too?” Neria asked as I slipped the sylvanwood ring off the dead Keeper’s finger and put it carefully into a pouch on my belt.

“No,” I said. “Lanaya will be made a new staff of dahl’amythal, as part of her ascension to Keeper.”

“Dahl’amythal?” she inquired, walking next to me at the back of the group on the way out of the temple and back to the camp.

“It’s a tree—the tree of Mythal. It does not normally do as well in human communities, but it is well-respected by my people,” I told her. “All Keeper staves are made of it.”

“Not sylvanwood?”

I patted the pouch. “No, but the ring I took is sylvanwood. Keepers wear sylvanwood rings which tell of Fen’Harel’s betrayal. It is a reminder, though what of depends on which Keeper you ask; my Keeper would say it is a reminder of our duty to protect our clan from Fen’Harel. Some say it is a reminder of our duty to remember the old ways.”

This spurred something in Neria, and she began to ask me many questions about Fen’Harel and about clan life. I tried to answer, but it was easy to be overwhelmed, and some of her questions… I did not know the answer to. Theron, ever my savior, came to stand nearby to field some of her curiosity. And, though I’m sure he would deny it, Darrien was obviously listening to what was said, walking as he was directly ahead of myself and Neria.

Darrien seemed mostly to not care much about Dalish life and culture, but I wondered how much was a front and how much was true. Certainly, there were plenty of city elves who would think the Dalish wild, and others who might feel there is no point in trying to cling to a dead past, to a lost history.

Darrien didn’t act like either category, and that he listened so intently when we spoke of Dalish custom only cemented that for me.

It wasn’t long before night fell, and we camped near a river. Without the threat of werewolves, and after the activity of the day, it was easy to fall asleep. I didn’t dream, and I don’t think the others did, either. It was a peaceful night, one sorely needed for the tragedy we would report the next day.

Lanaya had suspected Zathrian’s death, she told us, when we gave her his ring. “I felt a wave of power yesterday, one which left those afflicted by the curse feeling better, but it felt sad and bitter and angry, the way Zathrian did when he talked about ending the curse. I had hoped he would return, but…” She sighed, clutching the ring tightly and closing her eyes. “Ma serannas. You have done us a great service, and we will hold up our promise.”

She braced her shoulders and nodded. “It has been a very long time since the Dalish marched to war, but we will not fail you. We will fight for Ferelden against the Blight.”


	11. capella is nice

We stayed one more night in the Dalish camp before heading to Denerim, as we’d promised Leliana to do. I had gotten far in my journal, through even the Landsmeet, and felt rather proud of that, though I desperately hoped it would never need to be used. It was a failsafe, in case I did die, but I didn’t want to die. I was finally getting used to it here.

I was finally acclimating, I think.

Of course, that’s always when things have to go sour. The night before we reached Denerim, we Wardens had another nightmare of the Archdemon. (Nightmares of darkspawn in general were common, had become dismissible.) It gnashed its terrible teeth and its wide white eyes rolled around in its head. It was closer than last time, close enough to see what looked like rotting flesh clinging to bone, close enough that I swore it saw me.

As with the first Archdemon nightmare, I was screaming as I woke up. Unlike then, however, I didn’t seem to be alone. I heard shouts and clangs outside the tent; Theron scrambled into a crouch beside me. I heard him unsheathe Dar’Misu, and I grabbed my staff. Littlefoot barked, loud and angry. I shook myself.

“Darkspawn!” someone shouted. I thought it was Darrien.

“Fenedhis,” Theron cursed, and nearly tore the ties to our tent in his hurry to open it. Littlefoot shot out first, Theron soon after, and I stumbled out last.

It was chaos. Darkspawn had found us, just like the ambush that happened in the game, and I resisted the maniac urge to laugh. I stood in awe of it all, of how everything kept coming to pass almost exactly as I expected it to, with what amounted to minor exceptions, and watched the firelight make dancing shadows out of the battle that raged around me.

“Vir’era!”

I looked to the shout. Alistair pointed his sword to the right of me, jerking his head that way, before parrying a blow and getting swept up once more into battle. Lethargically, I looked to my right. A couple genlocks were running towards me. I laughed, then, and created a wall of ice to block their path.

Neria, wielding a sword still, ran up the ice and jumped down onto them. I laughed harder. There was a yell, but I didn’t look. I couldn’t stop laughing. Clashes and clangs clamored around me, and I didn’t stop. I fell to my knees.

“What the hell, Vir’era?” Darrien demanded, but I shook my head. I didn’t know.

“Tamlen!”

One word, and I stopped. I froze. Tamlen, I thought, oh no, gods above, no. But I was too late. Horrified, I looked in the direction of Theron’s voice, my laughter efficiently culled. I had forgotten. I meant to tell him, to warn Theron, but I forgot, and now—

A struggle. Shouting, too many words all at once, and I couldn’t make sense of any of them in my state of shock. I sat on the ground, where I had fallen in my fit of laughter, my hands loose on my staff. I didn’t blink, and I could feel my jaw hanging. I had failed him.

Silence gripped the camp with unforgiving stillness, only to be broken by a wail. “Theron,” I whispered, then shoved myself to my feet and stumbled to the sound. I nearly ran into Sten, and I shouted, “Theron!”

The wail had stopped, but I could see him now, and I started to run to his side, but drew up short. Zevran was there already. Zevran was there, hadn’t failed him, Zevran pulled him up and away from Tamlen’s body. My knees grew weak again as I stared.

Neria stood in my way, face grave and eyebrows drawn up. I forced myself to refocus my eyes on her. It didn’t work. Or, at least, it wasn’t as easy as it ought to have been. I could still see, clear as can be, the image of Tamlen. Skin dark with the taint, turned to a ghoul from it all. And I had known. And I had forgotten.

I started to cry. Neria gathered me into her arms and guided me away. I held tight to her nightgown, unashamed in my misery. She murmured to me, and pulled me to sit by the fire. Leliana came to sit on my other side, rubbing my back as Neria stroked my hair. Quietly, I heard Leliana begin to sing.

“Balulalow, balulalow…” It was the lullaby I’d taught her. It had been… A month? Two? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. “Balulalow, balula, lulalow… Angels bow their heads and fold their golden wings while Mary sings…”

I let Leliana’s voice slip around me like a hug. The familiar song and her candy-sweet voice helped to ground me. I felt pressure against my feet and legs, but knew without looking that it was Littlefoot. A warm head in my lap confirmed this, but I could not muster up a smile even for him.

As Leliana finished the song, I lifted my face from Neria’s shoulder. “Theron,” I said, my voice raspy from crying. “Where is he?”

“Zevran took him into his tent,” Neria replied, still stroking my hair. “Normally, I would be worried that he had impure intentions, but…” She looked at the assassin’s tent. “I think even he knows better.”

I nodded. “Zevran is many things, but he is not stupid.” I sighed, lifted one hand from gripping Neria’s clothes to pet Littlefoot’s head. “…sorry.”

She smiled at me, and gave Littlefoot a pet, too. “It’s fine,” she reassured.

Leliana hummed. “You are our friend, Vir’era. You would do the same, would you not?”

“Yeah. Thank you.” I stroked Littlefoot’s fur and he looked at me with big brown eyes. “I’ll be okay.”

“Good,” Neria said, and then took a deep breath, and asked, “Who was he?”

“His name was Tamlen.” Littlefoot whined, and I nodded. “He… I did not know him well. He was Theron’s friend. They were both hunters, and… And Tamlen was supposed to be dead. He—they went to ruins, and there was an eluvian, and Tamlen touched it—and he became… that, I guess.”

“You guess?” prompted Morrigan, and I was startled to find she had also been listening.

“I… I don’t know what happened, exactly.” I stared up at Morrigan’s face, blinking slowly. “Tamlen touched the eluvian, and he disappeared. Neither the clan’s hunters nor Duncan saw him, and Theron and I, we were both…”

“You were there?” Neria whispered.

I froze. “Yes,” I said, after a moment, and then I swallowed, and repeated, “yes, I was there.”

“I’m sorry.” She hugged one arm around my shoulders. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“The clan has already mourned him. They sang the mourning song as we left…”

“Would you like to sing it now?”

The question surprised me, and I looked at Leliana. “Sing it now?” I asked.

“Yes.” She scooted forward. “I know that singing helps you, because sometimes you sing to yourself, and even if your clan has sung the mourning song, and even if you have already sung it, it is appropriate to sing it again, now that you have closure, is it not?”

I watched the firelight in her eyes for a moment before I nodded. “Yes,” I murmured, “I suppose it is.”

“Then sing,” she urged, and I did.

“Hahren na melana sahlin, emma ir abelas…”

 

The next morning, when Theron emerged from Zevran’s tent, he looked calm as usual, but I avoided him. I struck up conversation on shapeshifting with Morrigan when he drew near, or about the Arcane Warriors with Neria. As we approached Denerim, I even volunteered to stay with Sandal and Bodhan at camp, hoping that Theron would go into town.

He didn’t. Maybe I should have expected that, though; maybe he was still in mourning. But I wasn’t thinking straight, and I could not keep from worrying that he hated me. That he knew what I had done—what I had forgotten—and that he would be angry with me for it.

In a desperate attempt to keep from having conversation, and with the thin excuse of practice should anyone question too closely, I shifted into a cat. Sandal seemed delighted by the display, at least, and paused in examining some new runes to watch me walk through the grass.

A cat’s vantage point is so much different, and since I hadn’t exactly tried shapeshifting since that first success, it was the first I really took the time to notice. Other than the obvious things, I was surprised (dimly amused by the surprise) to find just how much taller the grass seemed when my total height was closer to one foot than five.

It brushed against the fur on my belly as I walked around the camp. Littlefoot walked beside me, panting loud and occasionally giving wet, affectionate kisses. His tongue dragged on my fur. I sneezed at the smell.

Sten had stayed behind once more, as had Shale. Everyone else was in the city, though. Even Stellaluna and Dracula had been brought along. Camp seemed so empty without the presence of everyone. I sat beside my tent and blinked out at the world.

Theron came near, and I moved, leaping from the spot like it burned. Unused to the feline body, though, I tumbled and fell in my efforts. “Ir abelas,” Theron said, voice calm like the sea before a typhoon. “I did not mean to startle you.”

I mewed in embarrassment and an attempt to acknowledge his words, but left anyways. He did not follow, and I settled down once again beside Sten.

“You are a cat now,” he observed. “The witch taught you this?”

I meowed, and he hummed. He was sharpening his blade, and I saw Darrien’s blade sitting nearby, freshly cleaned. We sat in silence for a long moment, before he spoke again, “It was your clansman who was with the darkspawn last night.”

I blinked at him, but he did not pause in sharpening his blade. “Killing one who was once a friend is never easy, but must be done.”

It was the most consolation I would get from him, even though it was not me who felled Tamlen, and I could not honestly say I felt much grief over Tamlen’s death. Was that bad? I had never known him, but he was real, now. He wasn’t just some character whose death furthered the story. He existed. Had existed.

I curled up, tucking my face into my front legs. I was done thinking about that. (Hopefully it would be done bothering me.) The sun was bright and high in the sky. It warmed my fur nicely. What season was it? It felt like spring. It had been cooler when I first came to Ferelden, though, so perhaps it was summer.

I fell asleep to the sound of a whetstone being slid over steel.

 

Sleeping as a cat was more calming than I expected. I didn’t dream, didn’t have a nightmare. The fire was warm and comforting, and at some point Littlefoot had come to curl around me. I felt safe, then. Safer than I’d felt since arriving in Thedas. When I awoke, it was nearing dawn. I could see the horizon just barely starting to brighten, fingers of light slipping in among the dark sky.

I had missed dinner, then. I wondered why no one woke me for it, but perhaps they had thought I needed the sleep more than I needed to eat. It wouldn’t be an incorrect guess. I had always been a deep, heavy sleeper before, and I had usually slept for long hours at a time.

Needless to say, I didn’t get as much sleep in Thedas as a Grey Warden.

I stretched and yawned. Littlefoot snuffled beside me and yawned as well. I stood on four paws, blinked at the world, and decided to change back. As soon as I was hu—an elf again, I stretched once more, sighing quietly in satisfaction. Shale had taken to helping stand watch at night. While she wasn’t the only one to watch, because not only would that be unfair but also the camp was too large for one watch, she was the only one to stand watch every night. But, then again, since she was a golem, she didn’t need sleep.

Shale nodded to me when I smiled in greeting, then went back to glaring at a bird’s nest up in a nearby tree. I could hear the baby birds chirping, and hoped that Shale hadn’t killed the mother, but didn’t say anything. I looked instead for whoever else was standing guard now with her.

On the side of camp opposite Shale, Capella was grinding ingredients for something or another. A poison, probably, knowing her. I walked over to sit by her.

“Good morning,” she said, not looking up from her work.

“Shouldn’t you be watching the road or something?” I asked.

She gestured with the pestle to some bushes about ten feet away. “Traps. Anyone quiet enough to get that close is smart enough to hide from view, as well, but my traps are good enough that most would miss them, no matter how good they are at sneaking in the dark.”

I hummed. I couldn’t see exactly where her traps were, but that was the point, I supposed. Picking at some burrs which had caught on the hem of my robes, I considered what to say next. What could I say?

Capella beat me to it. “He was from your clan. The elf from the other night.”

I paused and swallowed, then picked a particularly stubborn burr off. “Yes.”

She looked at me and frowned. “You’re a bad liar,” she said. “Tell the truth.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” She set down her tools and turned to stare at me. Her face was completely blank, so utterly neutral that I had no way to tell what she was thinking.

“I…” I looked at the ground and bit my lip.

“Vir’era.” Her voice, like her face, was calm and undisturbed, as even as a well-forged blade. “Look at me, please.”

I took a deep breath and did as she asked. She still had a scar over her right eye, the green eye. Ending the curse had not reversed that, but she didn’t seem to care much. Or, rather, if she cared, she hid it well. Better than I would have, apparently.

“I am not angry that you have lied,” Capella said, and I believed her. “You, of all of us, have the most reason to keep secrets. I’ve been told the Dalish keep theirs tightly, and if you were apprenticed to a leader—a Keeper, I heard Theron call it—then you would be especially closed-lipped. And yet…”

“I have lied,” I interrupted. She did not protest. Maybe she wanted me to interrupt her. “But—Capella, I’m sorry, the reasons I have lied…”

“You can tell me the truth, Vir’era,” Capella said, and again I believed her. She leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder. “We are collectively the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden. We must protect each other if we want to stop the Blight and save Ferelden.”

I floundered for words. She waited, her hand still on my shoulder, and I felt my resolve crack. “There are things you can’t know,” I whispered. “Or shouldn’t.” I pulled her hand from my shoulder and held it in both of mine. “I don’t know what I can say and what I can’t.” My heart pounded. “I did not know Tamlen. He wasn’t from my clan. I am not from the same clan as Theron.”

I squeezed her hand and closed my eyes. “But I do know what can happen. And I know—I know—I—” I was starting to hyperventilate. “I am not lying about who I am,” I said, desperately. “Just—just—only where I’m from, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Capella murmured, and squeezed my hands in return. “That is what I needed to know. I trust you.” My eyes opened wide, and I stared at her, breath ragged. She smiled, and instead of looking like it hid fangs, I thought it hid moonlight. (Not sunlight, never something so bright, but moonlight, quiet and silvery… Yes, that could be hidden in Capella’s smile.)

“And if you have other secrets… if there is anything else, they are safe with me. Things you can tell me, which will not cause harm.” I swallowed, and stared at the ground. She used her free hand to pull my chin up, bringing my eyes back to hers. “Vir’era. You don’t need to hide always.”

I nodded. “I know,” I whispered.

“You’re a smart young man,” she said, barely drawing out the final word. My eyes widened, and I knew that she knew. Her lips pulled further, the largest smile I had seen from her. “Let no one tell you otherwise. Do you understand me, good ser elf?”

I breathed out all at once, and could feel myself go nearly limp with it. “Yes,” I said, again, and I smiled. Littlefoot came over and nudged under my arm, and I let go of Capella’s hand to hug him. Stellaluna followed him, but went to sit at her master’s feet. We sat in silence as dawn broke.

By the time the sun had peeked over the horizon, camp was back in full swing. We had eaten and packed, wandering once more on the road down south. Our next destination was Ostagar. We had documents and armor to retrieve, and a king to lay to rest.

 

It should have taken perhaps five days to walk to Ostagar, and while it did, that’s also not where I ended up. On the third night, Morrigan took me aside and said she had found a task for me to complete in return for having been taught to shapeshift. I knew what it was, but did not stop her explanation.

Somehow, hearing about her horror at Flemeth’s plans and how Flemeth had used her previous daughters hit home much deeper when Morrigan was a real, flesh-and-blood person standing in front of me by firelight. Her face was red as she recounted what was in the Grimoire that Daylen found, and her eyes nearly glowed.

She could not go with me, but I could not go alone; even Morrigan acknowledged this easily, and soon the whole camp knew. Daylen was furious. Not so furious as when we had arrived at Kinloch Hold, but furious still. Alistair, for as much as he disliked Morrigan, for as much as they did not get along, agreed that Flemeth was pretty much the worst. (I said nothing.)

Knowing Flemeth’s hut to be near Ostagar, we split into two groups when we drew near. It was dangerous, and I could tell Alistair didn’t like the plan, but the argument was solid: fewer Grey Wardens at Ostagar made it harder for darkspawn to sense them as a whole and thus easier to carry out the tasks there. Morrigan couldn’t go to confront Flemeth, anyway.

With me came Castor, Neria, Darrien, Daylen, and Theron. (And, of course, Littlefoot and Dracula.) I hoped we wouldn’t need to fight Flemeth. I didn’t know if we could win. And, even if we did fight her, even if we did seem to kill her… I knew she wouldn’t be dead. Not completely. Hawke would revive her. She would always come back, and she would always find Morrigan again.

We parted from them when we could see Ostagar in the distance; Morrigan pointed us to an old trail, barely visible for the plant growth, which would lead us to her mother’s hut. “Bring me her grimoire,” she said, and then she turned and stalked towards the towers of Ostagar.

The others waved, and for a while we walked in silence.

“We can’t kill her,” I said, about fifteen minutes in.

“What else do you expect to do?” Daylen asked. “We told Morrigan that we’d kill her mother.”

I looked at him, and he met me head-on. “I mean that we can’t kill her. Literally can’t. Not—not that we shouldn’t.” (But should we? Would it be logical? If we could… would it be right?)

He stopped, and so did I. I heard more than saw the others move to stand around us, watching and listening closely. Daylen crossed his arms, facing me with his whole body. “What do you mean that we can’t kill her?”

“She’s—she isn’t exactly human.” Before he could ask, I threw my hands up. “I don’t know exactly what she is. And yes, she takes her daughters’ bodies. But… She won’t take Morrigan’s.”

“How do you know?” he demanded.

“Because that’s—” That’s what she said, isn’t it? Because she won’t, in Inquisition. She said, says she won’t, and she says… “Because a soul is not forced upon the unwilling. Because of that.” I tugged on the sleeves of my robe.

“That sounds like bullshit.” I glared. He huffed. “Why shouldn’t we at least try? What will happen if we do?”

I swallowed. “We… could, in a way, temporarily kill her. But she planned for that. She is a smart woman, and she is prepared to be killed. She will come back. There is a ritual…” I waved my hand. “But that isn’t important. The fact is that she won’t stay dead, and especially won’t stay dead for long.”

“How long, though? How long can we give Morrigan?”

I wanted to punch him. “Did you not hear what I said? She won’t take Morrigan’s body! I am certain of this, and I would have you trust me, please!”

He stepped close. He was almost a foot taller than me, and he glared down. “How long, Vir’era?”

I snarled. “At most? Three months.” A white lie. I didn’t want to fight Flemeth. I didn’t want to risk it.

Daylen snarled right back, and then we were being pushed apart by Neria’s tiny hands. “Stop it!” she said. “Both of you, calm down!”

I stumbled back a bit, but stopped. Daylen continued to sneer. Neria glared at him, then pursed her lips at me. “Three months may not be long, but… How powerful is she, Vir’era?”

“She can turn into a High Dragon. And she will.”

Silence for the first time.

“She is Flemeth from the legends. The Witch of the Wilds,” I emphasized. “She is extremely powerful. Even if we fought her, it would be extremely difficult. I do not want to risk it. I do not want to risk our lives when she will not stay dead.”

Silence again. Then Daylen turned and launched a blast of magic at a bush, destroying it. He shouted something incomprehensible, growled to himself, and swirled back to face me. “If I ever find you have lied, or if Morrigan is killed for Flemeth’s gain, I will find you.”

I did not flinch. I knew I was right. I had to be. Everything else had been right so far. Everything else had gone mostly how I thought. Everything. Why would this change? “She won’t,” I promised, and I meant it.

We stood and stared for a good minute, until Castor broke the tension. “Well, that’s decided, then,” he said. “Can we go do whatever we’re going to do instead of killing her, then?”

I breathed in slowly, stepping back and nodding to Castor. I could feel my hands starting to shake. Fuck, I hated confrontation, but—but that had been necessary. Right? It had to happen, so that we could avoid unnecessary trauma. “We will strike a deal with her. Her life for her book. We will not tell Morrigan.”

“Agreed,” Daylen said. I was almost surprised; after how impassioned he was about protecting Morrigan, how desperately he wanted to take Flemeth down to keep the witch safe, I had not expected he would agree to lie to her. But perhaps this was another way to protect her.

Castor nodded. “Right. Let’s go.” He started down the trail again, and we followed him.

Flemeth greeted us immediately, noting the lack of her daughter, but Daylen did not allow her to speak long. “We know your plans, witch!” he accused.

She chortled, a sound that was simultaneously artificial and completely genuine, as though she had specifically manufactured a particular sound with which to express her amusement rather than allowing it to occur organically. “Ohoho! So Morrigan has found someone to dance to her tune, hm?”

Daylen started forward, but Theron took his arm and shook his head. Instead, the mage snarled, yanking his arm back and glaring at Flemeth.

“Asha’bellenar,” I said, and her clever eyes settled on me instead. She smirked, and I swallowed. “We—we have come for the grimoire, at Morrigan’s behest.”

“Yes,” she drawled, “I thought as much. I suspect she asked you to kill me, as well, did she not?”

“Yes.” There was no point in lying.

Her lips curved ever more. “I have a proposition. I rather like living, and you seem a smart bunch.” Her eyes flicked to Daylen. “Even you.” She chortled again when he growled.

“What is it?” Castor asked. He looked relaxed; he stood with his weight shifted and he examined his gloves rather than looking at Flemeth or anyone else.

I thought Flemeth’s smile may devour us whole if it grew any wider, but it didn’t. “I will give you the book,” she said, “as a trophy. Tell Morrigan I am slain.”

“And? What will you do?”

“I will leave.” She looked past us, to the north. “I will disappear, and you shall not see me again.”

“Will Morrigan be safe?” Daylen interrupted, and Flemeth’s eyes cut to him like a knife through butter.

“Is she safe now?” she returned. “How safe can she ever be?”

“You know what I mean!” he said, stepping forward. Theron started to reach out again, but I shook my head, and he stopped.

Flemeth tilted her head at Daylen, watching him. “Perhaps I will surprise Morrigan someday, or perhaps I will just watch. It would be interesting to see just what she does with her freedom… Enlightening, even.”

“Daylen,” I said. “I did not lie to you.”

Flemeth raised an eyebrow at me. “So? Which will it be? Will you slay the old wretch as Morrigan bids?”

“Where is the book?” Castor asked, preventing Daylen from speaking.

“In the hut, with notes and spells enough to make even Morrigan blush with delight.” Her tone was dark, like a long hallway lit only at either end. “You and I will not meet again. That, I guarantee.”

I wondered if she would be surprised to see me again. If I could live long enough, I suspected I’d see her again. Maybe I wouldn’t, though. I wasn’t eager to.

We collected the book, and when we exited the hut again, Flemeth was gone. The walk to Ostagar carried the weight of a glacier. Daylen refused to speak. Only Castor dared to attempt conversation, and though both Darrien and Neria returned the favor, it felt like a puppet show.

Daylen didn’t let any of us touch the grimoire, and I could feel his eyes burn the back of my neck as we walked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna go ahead and link to the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EAANKFPchtA) even though i suspect most of you know which one i'm referencing. which brings up the question: why tf is it called leliana's song? like bruh. it's in fuckin elvish.
> 
> SIGH WHATEVER DD OUT


	12. DWARVES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the grey wardens & company meet a pair of dwarves on their way to get help from... well, the dwarves.

Those of us who had gone to confront Flemeth rejoined the rest of our group near nightfall that same day. Their own mission had been a success, and they were preparing King Cailan’s pyre. Alistair was more somber than I had ever seen him; eyes downcast and grey like rain. Capella did not leave his side, and I saw her link their hands. Alistair stood taller when she did.

Castor stared at the body in the flames, and their flickering light made his expression impossible to decipher. Darrien was close by, standing slightly behind Castor. His arms were crossed and he didn’t look at the flames, but at the dirt in front of him.

Neria and Leliana stood further from the fire. Sten and Shale were yet further, seeming completely unaffected by the event. Wynne was close, and I wondered what she thought of Cailan. Had she thought him a good king? I couldn’t tell.

I stood alone, just close enough to feel the heat of the flames on my skin. I knew Theron was behind me, and suspected Zevran was with him. I had avoided talking to him so far, had managed to keep away, but… As I watched Cailan’s body burn, I knew it couldn’t continue much longer.

But tonight was not the right night for confrontation.

I had slept as a cat every night since Denerim. It was easier to sleep, and what nightmares I did get were so much duller. Plus, I could avoid talking to Theron, which was the main goal. But that night, I didn’t. I crawled into my bedroll as an elf, and I stayed like that through the night.

The thick silence, the cloud of smoke from Cailan’s pyre, choked conversation off until we were a half-day away, heading to Orzammar. The noon sun glinted off armor and finally melted the chill from the funeral.

“We should stop at Redcliffe,” Alistair announced. “It’s on the way, and we can tell Arl Eamon about the Dalish.”

“I agree,” Castor said. “Plus, beds.” That prompted some giggling and chuckling, and he grinned at us all.

Alistair nodded. “Yes, plus beds.” If he thought the glance he sent to Capella was discreet, he was fooling himself. (Zevran, at least, didn’t try to be discreet when he leered at Theron.)

Castor made a sound and wandered to walk next to me and Darrien. “If she kicks you out of sharing with Alistair—”

“Then I’ll share with Vir’era,” Darrien interrupted, but his cheeks looked flushed, and not just from walking so long. “I’m not sharing with you.”

Castor sighed. “How terrible, to have a bed all to myself.”

“I wonder who else will try to take advantage of it…” I mused. That Alistair and Capella were a couple was obvious. Zevran and Theron were at least dancing around the idea. Daylen seemed surprisingly smitten with Morrigan, but I couldn’t tell how she felt about him. (It wouldn’t shock me if they were just quieter about it all, though.)

What about Leliana, the other Origins romance option? Castor had flirted with her at first, but they didn’t talk as much now, and he seemed more interested in Darrien, anyway. Darrien had never seemed to think of Leliana as anything other than a fighting companion. Neria was hanging around her all the time, though… Maybe I just hadn’t paid close enough attention to that relationship.

I eyed Darrien and Castor, who had devolved into mild bickering. At least, Darrien was bickering. Castor was grinning and contributing only to get Darrien to speak more, and Darrien’s face grew more flushed as the pestering continued. I giggled at the sight, and Darrien immediately crossed his arms and refused to say another word.

Castor feigned intense injury, but backed off to pester his sister instead. Taking advantage of his distraction, I gently nudged Darrien. Darrien turned his head to me and narrowed his eyes. “What.”

I grinned. “He likes you.”

“Yeah, well, it’s weird.” Darrien was pouting. “He’s weird.”

“Mmm-hmm. Do you like him?”

“No!” he exclaimed, too quickly to be true. Then he shook his head, huffing. “No, definitely not. He’s a shem.” The word was spat. “Noble shems don’t care about us.” But his voice wasn’t strong through the phrase.

“Some don’t,” I agreed. “Like Vaughan.”

Darrien stopped walking and stared at me. “You know?” he whispered, brows furrowed.

I looked back at him, but didn’t stop. I nodded and beckoned him to continue. He hurried back up, but kept staring at me. “You know,” he repeated, and I just nodded again. “Damn.”

“The Couslands are different, though,” I insisted, as though we hadn’t changed the subject. He didn’t stop me, didn’t protest. “They don’t see us as inferior. Different, maybe, but that’s okay. That’s good, even. We are different, by virtue of our birth.”

“I don’t want to be different. I just want to be a person.” His second sentence was almost whispered, and I nearly missed it as we continued.

“You are. They know that, both of them. Capella… spoke with me the other day, and unless Castor is hiding his prejudice very well, Darrien, he likely shares her opinion.” I waited for Darrien to meet my eyes for the next words. “He sees you as Darrien, who happens to be an elf. Not as an elf who happens to be named Darrien.”

He huffed, but I saw him nod. We slipped back into a gentle quietude.

 

In Redcliffe, a courier found me and delivered a letter from Mia Rutherford. I was so shocked that I didn’t even thank the girl, but she was in a hurry enough that I doubt she noticed. I waited until we had been welcomed into the castle and given rooms for the night, and then I read it by candlelight. (Castor’s predictions were true, and I ended up sharing with Darrien that night as a mildly embarrassed Theron shuffled into a room with Zevran.)

_To Warden Vir’era Sabrae:_

_Thank you. Thank you so, so much for the news about my knuckleheaded brother. I heard about the Tower’s destruction not five days after receiving your letter, and I cannot express in words how thankful I was to know already that my brother was safe. The reports said almost all the Templars were injured or dead. I would have had only hope that Cullen was not among them if not for you._

_In exchange for your kindness, I’ll take your words to heart and let Cullen heal alone for a while. I don’t know if it’s the best thing, and you can bet it won’t last too long, but a Grey Warden might know more about this than I do._

_Thank you again._

_Mia Rutherford, 9:30 Dragon_

_PS: I don’t believe what’s being said about the Grey Wardens betraying the king. Anyone nice enough to send a letter about someone they barely know wouldn’t commit that kind of treason, and I’ll make sure everyone knows it._

I laughed quietly at her insistence, at how grandiose she seemed even in a letter to someone she had never met. I wondered what she looked like, what she was like in person. I wrote her back; in the morning, I would hand my letter and a small number of coins to a messenger.

_Mia Rutherford –_

_My fellow Wardens and I are delighted to know that you do not believe Loghain’s lies. I will spare you the details, but I promise you that we want only to help Ferelden and to end the Blight._

_That said, I urge you to keep yourself safe during this time. Please, if only for your brother’s sake. I don’t know him well, but he was kind enough, and I do not think he could bear it if you put yourself in unnecessary danger. Not after the Tower. For those who oppose Loghain, the Blight and the darkspawn are not the only threat right now. Don’t get yourself hurt on our behalf._

_Best wishes,_

_Warden Vir’era Sabrae, 9:30 Dragon_

 

Two weeks after the darkspawn attack on our camp near Denerim, I finally ran out of excuses to avoid Theron. He caught me by volunteering for a watch with me at dawn. I hadn’t seen as much of him the past few days, and I thought it would be easier to avoid him now that Zevran had so fully captured his attention, but I was wrong.

I sat on a log near the road at the edge of our camp. My shoulders were hunched, and I tried to avoid conversation by scrawling in the dirt with a stick. Theron just joined me in silence, picking up a stick of his own and scribbling.

After a minute, I wrote out ‘Ir abelas,’ using the human lettering. He knew how to read that, but while I seemed to know at least some ancient elven writing, I knew that most elves didn’t. For some reason, the Keepers kept it to themselves.

Theron sighed and put down his stick. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Vir’era.”

I didn’t answer.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” he asked. I drew my arms around myself.

“…I knew,” I whispered.

“Knew?” I didn’t look at him, so I didn’t know for sure what face he was making, but I thought it may have been that concerned one he made sometimes. With his eyebrows all drawn up and vallaslin pulled funny.

“About Tamlen.” My heart pounded as he gasped quietly.

He sighed after a minute. “Oh,” he said.

“Ir abelas,” I whispered, but the words caught on my tongue and came out garbled. I felt the weight of my forgetfulness like a boulder on my back, and I struggled for air as I was pushed further into myself by it.

“Vir’era, stop,” he said, and my breath became more shallow. “Vir’era, please, it’s—I forgive you. You didn’t—you did tell me. Remember?”

Confusion addled me further, but I forced my face up when he touched my cheek, obviously wanting to look me in the eye. I waited for him to speak, knowing I could not. Blood rushed through my veins like a tidal wave of fear, and I swore I could feel it as it moved.

“You said to me,” Theron insisted, crouching in front of me now (when did he get there?), “you said when we were still recruits that he could not be saved. You told me that, Vir’era. You told me he had been corrupted by the mirror.” Both his hands held my face now, and only when he used his thumbs to wipe my cheeks did I realize I was crying.

“You didn’t lie to me,” he said. “You did fine. You are good. I forgive you, even though there is nothing to forgive.” And he brought me close and hugged me, and I cried into his shoulder. He sang the lullaby again. “Elgara vallas, da’len…”

This time, I sang with him, and slowly calmed down. “Ma serannas,” I whispered. He just squeezed me. I didn’t see his face, but my shoulder was wet, too.

 

As we approached Orzammar’s entrance, with its grand stone doors, we were stopped by a pair of dwarves. “Hey!” said the woman. “Are you the Grey Wardens?”

We all paused, and Alistair asked, “Why?”

She huffed, and her male companion sighed (a Casteless, I noted, from the tattoo on his face). “Because we’re Grey Wardens. And we were told by Duncan to wait here for others to come.”

“Wait, you mean he wasn’t joking?” Alistair said, and the whole group groaned. Or, at least, most of us did.

“Alistair,” Capella interrupted, “would you kindly inform us about what you know?”

He coughed and rubbed one hand behind his head. “Uh, right. Well, you see, before Duncan went to do his recruiting at the eastern half of Ferelden, he was in the western half, right? And… he was in Orzammar. But he didn’t exactly bring the dwarven recruits with him to Ostagar, and so when I asked if he’d found any and he said yes, I thought he was joking.”

The dwarves groaned this time and Capella sighed. “My apologies,” she said to the dwarves. “If we had known, we would have sent word for you.”

The woman shrugged. “We only got back here about a week ago, anyways. We thought we’d arrive to find you waiting, actually, but since you didn’t know,” and she shot a raised eyebrow to Alistair, “it’s probably best that we got here first.”

“Why didn’t you come with Duncan, though?” Castor asked.

“He wanted us to go to Orlais,” she said. “Something about dwarves being a more neutral party. We had our Joining there, under a man named Blackwall. We were sent to ask for help with the Blight, and we stayed for two months to try and convince the Orlesian Wardens, but they kept moaning about politics. So we came back to wait.” She shrugged.

“Duncan’s dead, isn’t he.” It was the first time the male dwarf spoke, and it was more of a statement than a question.

Alistair clenched his hand. “Yes.”

“What are we supposed to do, then?” the woman asked. “My—I know the dwarves, obviously. The king would listen to Duncan, but I don’t think he’ll listen to any of you. No offense, of course.” Capella waved the comment off, and I tugged at the sleeves of my robes. “We haven’t even approached the doors yet.”

“Why not?” Castor asked.

The dwarf’s eyes met his. “We’ve been exiled. That’s why we became Grey Wardens. But without someone or something else to prove our words, neither Faren nor I would be allowed to so much as put a toe in the door.”

“Then we have just what you need! And you get to help us. We could use all the help we can get,” Alistair said. “See, we have the ancient Grey Warden treaties that promise us aid from—well, pretty much everyone, dwarves included. That’s why we were on our way here.”

“Good.” Faren nodded, crossing his arms. He looked over our strange group. “Are all of you Grey Wardens?”

“I’m not!” Zevran announced, raising a hand.

“Nor I,” Morrigan said.

“Do I look like a Grey Warden to you, dwarf?” Three guesses. Hint: she’s made of stone.

“And Wynne, Sten, and Leliana aren’t, either,” Neria said.

“That’s not a normal golem, is it?” Faren asked.

“I am not. But it is a normal dwarf. Pity.”

“…Right.”

“My name is Anya Aeducan,” the dwarf woman said, disrupting the banter. “I am King Endrin’s second child, but as I’ve been exiled, I don’t know that I count as their princess any longer. My friend is Faren Brosca.”

Introductions were made, then. Anya and Faren both seemed mostly uninterested in the races of their companions (we were all surfacers to them), but they did look closer at myself and the other mages. Morrigan pursed her lips at the examination, but Wynne smiled benignly.

“Right,” Anya said, turning back to look at Alistair. “You said something about treaties?”

“They compel the king of Orzammar to send aid whenever there’s a Blight,” he confirmed. “And, well, there’s a Blight. So we need aid.”

She nodded, and we trooped up to the stone doors. Bodhan and Sandal made excuses and set up a stall along the road leading up, saying they’d wait for us there.

The man sent by Loghain was there, of course. I hadn’t expected any different, at this point, though even in the game he had complained of waiting for weeks. (Days? He was so minor, I wasn’t sure.) But the guards were surprised to see Anya and Faren. “You’re alive?” one asked, eyes widening. “Both of you? Ah, nevermind, you know you can’t come in.”

“We are Grey Wardens,” Anya said, and her presence was several feet tall, even though she was… not. “We have treaties that would compel Orzammar to lend aid.”

The guard sighed, glancing to his coworker, who was dealing with Loghain’s man. “Only the king can send troops, though, and… Princess, look, I’m sorry, but your father’s dead. Orzammar is in a bit of a state right now.”

To her credit, Anya did not flinch, but even standing behind her as I was I could see her jaw and fists clench. “We cannot leave without gaining the aid of Orzammar,” she insisted.

“Yeah, I thought as much.” The guard sighed again. “You can make an appeal to the Assembly, but without a king on the throne, I don’t think you’ll get very far.”

“Thank you,” she said, quietly. He stepped aside and started to open the door.

“Hey!” Loghain’s man cut in, stepping forward to block our way and accost the guards. “You said no one would be entering!”

“They’re Grey Wardens,” the guard replied.

Loghain’s man snarled and pointed at us all. “Then they are fugitives! The Grey Wardens are wanted for treason and the murder of King Cailan!”

“Great, we’re playing this game again?” Castor groaned.

“Can we skip to the ending?” Darrien asked, unsheathing his greatsword.

“Capture them!” Loghain’s man demanded.

“This is not an ordeal for Orzammar,” said the guard, and he stepped back.

“Here we go,” I muttered.

We killed Loghain’s man, were thanked by the guards, and entered Orzammar.

 

As we walked through the large entrance hall, Theron nudged me. “Did you know about these two?” he asked, waving a hand at Anya and Faren, who were walking at the front with Capella and Alistair.

I shook my head, frowning. “No,” I said. “I didn’t think… there shouldn’t have been any more Wardens. I’m not entirely sure why…” I shrugged and didn’t finish the sentence. Theron hummed.

The contempt of the dwarves for the exiles was so much more palpable than I expected, and even frequently extended to the rest of us. I kept my eyes on the floor or my companions so that I could try to ignore the worst of the glares, but so many of them still burned my skin.

“Exiles,” the Captain greeted, only to be interrupted by a loud and large group of dwarves arguing over whether Bhelen or Harrowmont was better suited to take the throne of Orzammar.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then again. And again. Until the fighting was done, I counted. One, two, three, four…

“They’re gone,” Theron murmured, squeezing my arm briefly. I exhaled and opened my eyes; he spoke the truth.

“Ma serannas.” I missed what exactly the Captain said as he was told of our mission in Orzammar, but the result was expected: we headed to the Assembly. I watched Anya’s back—or, the back of her head, as I could see little else—and tried to discern what she was thinking.

I couldn’t get much. She stood tall (or, as tall as a dwarf can stand) and walked with purpose. If the news of her father’s death affected her, I could not tell. Maybe Faren could. He walked very near her, but where her shoulders were held square like royalty, his were more hunched, his head held in front of his body rather than aligned with it.

We strode through the commons and the Diamond Quarter with little resistance. Some nobles scrunched their noses and sneered at the sight of Anya and Faren, but only a few had the gall to say a word. (Even then, it was hardly more than a muttered ‘traitor’ as we passed by.)

The air in the Assembly chamber was hot. Hotter than in the commons, where lava flowed beneath, and stale. Deshyrs snarled at each other, pointing fingers and naming names and frothing at the bit like so many rabid horses. Upon their release, only the unstated promise of possible wins to come stayed their hands. They shuffled out, occasionally knocking into one another ‘on accident.’

Anya approached Assembly Steward Bandelor, and he nearly jumped out of his skin upon seeing her face. Faren’s company didn’t help. “…Exiles,” he greeted, after a moment. “What has brought you to the Assembly?”

“We are Grey Wardens now,” she said, and already the words were old. I looked around at the Assembly Chamber, paying little attention to what words were exchanged. It made no difference to me. This wouldn’t have much effect, I didn’t think.

(Had I forgotten?)

The Chamber was large. I had been in caves Before (even in my head, when I thought of my life pre-Thedas, it became a capitalized Before), but nothing like what made up Orzammar. The air was much hotter here, filled with the heat of the lava far below. How exactly that worked without overheating things or melting the whole rocky kingdom was beyond me.

The rock formations in the Chamber were almost entirely artificial. Only the tall ceiling, from which still hung a few large stalactites, was entirely natural still. I touched a table as we passed; it was warm. Well, warmer than I had expected.

Littlefoot nosed at me, and I turned to the group only to find they had nearly reached the Assembly doors once more. I ran to catch up, and as the doors closed behind me, Bandelor bid us adieu. Darrien scowled after him, and I thought I saw a similar emotion on Faren’s face, but it disappeared too quickly. Anya was as stoic as the Couslands; perhaps it was part of being nobility.

“We’ll find my brother, then,” Anya said, and started walking out to the Diamond Quarter again.

I wondered if she had gone along with Bhelen’s plans during what would have been her Origin. Had she conspired to kill Trian? Or had she tried to stay out of it? Did she know the full extent of what Bhelen had done to get Orzammar to this point?

Perhaps it was better if she didn’t. Harrowmont was the kinder dwarf on the whole, but Bhelen could bring the dwarven people to a new, more progressive era. His methods were dirty, but his goal was good. I wanted to put him on the throne.

We were stopped by Vartag Gavorn and he was all too happy to see Anya. He even greeted Faren kindly, which made the Casteless dwarf narrow his eyes, but nothing was mentioned of it. Anya barely bothered listening to what Vartag had to say, and just about snatched the papers he had for Lords Helmi and Dace. “It will be done by tomorrow,” she promised.

Vartag grinned.

We took to the Diamond Quarter once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's probs painfully obvious that i have a great and terrible preference for cullen and everything associated with him i am not sorry
> 
> also i've never played a dwarf commoner, so any interactions are based off of what i know from the dwarf nobility route, which i'm sure is different


	13. gore-geous

Anya started in on finding the nobles to deliver the letters to, and the Couslands and Alistair joined her. Leliana, Wynne, and Neria said something about looking around, and took off with only a half-heard promise about meeting near the entrance to the Diamond Quarter later. Shale followed Darrien and Sten to the Proving grounds, and Morrigan seemed disinterested in anything, but I watched Daylen kiss her hand and start to pull her away with the same promise that Leliana had made.

With that, Zevran had Faren lead the way out of the Diamond Quarter and all the way down to Dust Town. Faren didn’t ask why he wanted to go, or why we bothered following. He simply shrugged and let us follow him. Zevran pulled Theron’s hand into his own, and I rested mine on Littlefoot’s neck.

Before we could exit the Diamond Quarter, however, a dwarf woman ran up to us, calling out Faren’s name. He stopped and whirled around so quickly it seemed he’d used magic. “Rica?” It was all he managed to say before the woman had wrapped him up in a hug.

“It is you!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I’m so glad.” She pulled back, patting Faren’s face and smiling widely. “I did it, Faren. I gave birth to a son. Bhelen’s son! We named him Endrin, for his grandfather, and I have been named a royal concubine.”

“That, uh, that’s great,” Faren said, staring at her as she continued to explain what had happened with her since he’d been forced to leave.

“Have you been to see Vartag Gavorn?” she asked. “Maybe, since you’re a Grey Warden, you can help resolve the whole issue with the succession…”

Now Faren smiled. “We have, yeah. Anya and some other Wardens are seeing to things right now. I was… I was going to Dust Town.” He glanced at us, but made no move to introduce us.

“Anya? As in the exiled Princess? Bhelen’s sister?” Rica’s eyes were wide, and she seemed fine with continuing to ignore the elves standing nearby for the moment.

Faren coughed. “Yeah. That’s her. She’s talking with Lady Dace, I think, if you want to, uh, speak with her.”

Rica hummed and looked over in the direction that must have been the Dace residence. “Perhaps,” she said, and then her eyes were on us, “but first I want you to introduce your friends. Are you all also Wardens?”

Zevran bowed elaborately. “Alas, I am not, but it is still a pleasure to make the acquaintance of someone so lovely. My name is Zevran.” Theron rolled his eyes at the display, and Zevran grinned. “This is my lover, Theron. He is a Grey Warden. As is the quiet elf with the dog. Vir’era is a Warden, that is, not my lover.”

Rica raised an eyebrow at Zevran, but smiled nonetheless. “A pleasure,” she said, then eyed Littlefoot. “Does your dog have a name?”

“His name’s Littlefoot,” I answered, and she hummed. She made her excuses, and left, presumably back to the palace.

“She was nice,” Theron said.

Faren nodded. “Rica’s always been nice. I’m glad she’s out of Dust Town, but there’s still something I gotta see there…”

We walked through the commons to Dust Town. Mostly we went ignored, but some people gave nasty looks or sneers to Faren. I tried to keep my eyes on my friends, instead. Even looking at the architecture and scenery wouldn’t distract me enough from those whose distaste was so easily shown.

Dust Town was very aptly named, it turned out. More aptly than I’d expected; as we walked through, we kicked up dust in our path, and soon we were covered in it. Littlefoot sneezed, and Theron made a sound of sympathy.

Whoever or whatever Faren was looking for, he didn’t find it. Just Zerlinda and her son (who we promised to help). We wandered Dust Town for far longer than I was entirely comfortable with, especially given that we were assaulted at one point. Eventually, even Theron grew tired of wandering through such a desolate area. “Faren,” he said, stopping the dwarf. “I understand that what you are searching for must be important, but this has been fruitless. We should return to the others.”

Faren huffed, but nodded. He didn’t say much except to answer Zevran’s banal questions about their surroundings as he led us back out of Dust Town and back to the Diamond Quarter entrance. Neria and Darrien’s groups were already there, waiting, but no one else had returned yet. As we waited, they filled us in on what had happened with them.

“There is a woman who says her son, Ruck, is in the Deep Roads. I fear we will be headed there ourselves soon enough, so I thought if we should come across him, it would be of great comfort to her,” Leliana said. “She was praying to the Ancestors for help.”

“There’s also a dwarf who wants to open a Chantry,” Neria added. “We managed to convince the Shaper to let him try, because there should be no harm in it.”

“We found a woman in Dust Town whose father sent her there. Zerlinda.” Theron waved a hand towards the commons. “She said he spends time in the tavern. I think we can convince him to take her and the child back.”

“Oh, I will make sure of that,” Leliana promised. When Zevran laughed, she crossed her arms. “What? Do you think that is funny? I can be just as convincing as Capella, I assure you.”

“I believe you,” Neria said, and took Leliana’s hand.

I had definitely missed something there, I realized, as Leliana smiled down at the mage. Soon, things devolved into idle chatter as we awaited everyone else’s return. Daylen and Morrigan arrived soon enough, and Morrigan was actually giggling, which sent Zevran’s eyebrows flying up. She glared when he started to ask about it, though, so it was definitely still the right Morrigan, and not someone disguised as her.

Anya, Alistair, and the Couslands only appeared after almost two hours of waiting. Some guards were starting to get antsy about our lingering presence, but stepped back when Anya strode up to us. A group of dwarves from House Dace was with them, and thanked Anya one last time before heading into the Diamond Quarter, presumably to return home and spread the news of Harrowmont’s apparent double-dealing.

“Let’s go speak to Vartag, then,” Anya said. “Perhaps now I can convince him to let us see my brother.” He did, of course, and Bhelen greeted us in his study.

“Sister!” he said, approaching Anya with open arms, though neither got close enough for a hug. “This is a surprise. I didn’t think I’d see you ever again. Not to say I’m displeased, though. Vartag tells me you’ve been working in my favor?”

Anya crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at Bhelen. “Yep,” she replied, popping the p. “And I’ll keep doing it unless you give me good reason not to.”

Bhelen smiled benignly, but I wasn’t sure that I believed it. “I have missed you.”

She snickered back at him, but nodded. “Same here. What else do you need to get the throne?”

Bhelen sighed a bit. “Jarvia.”

“Jarvia?” Faren cut in.

Bhelen nodded. “She’s been a thorn in the side of both myself and Harrowmont. If I can claim that I was the one who had her finally eliminated, I would gain a great amount of approval.”

“Um, who’s Jarvia?” Neria asked, one hand half-raised.

Bhelen blinked at her, as if just realizing that Anya’s companions were, in fact, also there, and also important. “She’s the current leader of the carta,” he said, after a moment. “And with no King on the throne, the carta has gotten out of hand. Crime has risen beyond what can be allowed.”

“Oh,” Neria said.

“‘Oh,’ indeed.”

“Don’t you worry,” Anya said. “We’ll take care of it. But we’ll do it tomorrow. Now, dear brother, if you’d be so kind as to house us, I would be so very grateful.” It didn’t sound like a request, and I think Bhelen caught that, as well. He smiled thinly.

“Of course, Anya.” He turned to mutter something to Vartag, who strode out of the room with a similar smile. “I’m afraid we are already entertaining a few guests, and since your group is quite large, you will need to share rooms. If that is acceptable?” He stared at Anya, who stared back with a plastic smile.

“Perfectly.”

 

The sleeping arrangements ended up being very similar to the normal camp set up, though Sten was awkwardly roomed with Shale--as much as anyone could be roomed with the golem. He’d still have the bed to himself, at least. Anya and Faren opted to room together, which seemed to surprise Bhelen, but he made no protest.

When we started to head out the next morning, I asked if anyone had run across any carta thugs yet. “No,” Anya answered, and glanced at me. “Why?”

“Um,” I said, eloquently. “Well, we need--there’s a way to get into the hideout, and to get in, we need a… a fingerbone. It’s-it’s like their password?”

Anya stared at me. “We need to… cut off a finger. And clean the bone. To enter.”

“No!” I waved my hands. “They--the carta members should all have one already on them. It’s marked. Jarvia did it.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Leliana let out a sigh of relief, one hand on her chest.

“That makes more sense,” Anya said, then looked to Capella. “We’re a large group.”

“Indeed,” Capella replied, then looked to Theron.

“Sixteen. Plus three mabari.” The three stared at each other for a few moments.

“Can you, I don’t know, let the rest of us in on the secret?” Darrien demanded, frowning at the three of them.

Castor hummed. “I think I can translate. They’re organizing who will take what groups. We’re splitting up, basically.” Darrien raised both his eyebrows at Castor, who smiled and nodded his head at Capella. “Ask her if you don’t believe me.”

He just huffed.

“My brother’s right,” Capella said, waving a hand at him. “I’ll take Alistair, Wynne, Sten, and Morrigan. And, of course, Stellaluna.” Stellaluna barked happily at her name.

“Faren, you’re with me,” Anya said. “Also the golem, Leliana, Neria, and Daylen.”

Theron nodded, and looked at the rest of us. “Everyone else is with me.”

“The job is to get a finger bone off a carta member.” Anya looked around the groups. “Shouldn’t take too long. They’ve been everywhere except the Diamond Quarter. Capella, you and Theron’s groups should take the commons. I’ll search Dust Town. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get multiple bones.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I also don’t mind how you get the bones, as long as you do. Meet me at the Dust Town plaza in an hour.”

Theron nodded, and the groups split. Capella’s group took the side of the commons near the Diamond Quarter, and our group went to the side near Dust Town. We mostly just wandered the area, in the end, and didn’t run into any carta members within the hour. It wasn’t that surprising, I supposed. We did run into Dagna, though. Someone else must have already spoken to her about the Tower, because she was on her way home to pack.

At the end of the hour Anya had given us, we shrugged at each other and headed into Dust Town. Capella caught up with us before we found Anya again, and shook her head; her group had also not found a finger bone. But Anya did. She was flipping it in the air when we arrived. Daylen rolled his eyes at the display, possibly for Morrigan’s benefit.

“Nadezda here was kind enough to point us in the right direction,” Anya said, gesturing at a beggar woman nearby, who nodded her head. “Now we just need to find a door.”

“I think I know which door would work,” Theron said. Anya gestured for him to lead the way, and he brought us to a door not far from where Anya’s group had been waiting. He pointed to a small slot, and lowered his voice. “It’s too convenient to be a coincidence.”

Faren snorted, and Anya slipped the finger bone into the slot in the door. I reminded myself to breathe. The door opened. We started filing in. Before I had come through the door, the sounds of fighting started to filter outside, and we hurried to fit everyone through and shut the door behind us.

The fighting didn’t last long. I had barely gotten my bearings when it ended. Anya grumbled something about needless violence. Capella pilfered some arrows from one of the fallen dwarves, and we headed down the cave-hall.

Zevran insisted on pausing whenever we passed by caches to see if there was anything useful in them; we did find more arrows and some health poultices, so I suppose it was useful enough. He also made sure to check every corpse we left for money, but that was generally accepted by now. The point he’d made back in Haven had stuck, and we certainly weren’t being paid in more conventional means.

While some seemed surprised at the presence of Qunari mercenaries (well, probably Tal-Vashoth), Sten didn’t even blink. Castor asked him about this when we picked over yet another room of bodies, and he simply said, “There are many Tal-Vashoth on Seheron.”

Castor around to see if anyone else had something to say, but received just a series of shrugs, and decided to let it go.

It didn’t take long to reach Jarvia’s main room. Or maybe it did? Telling time was difficult underground, and I found myself completely disoriented by it. I was reliant on the sun for that, if nothing else. (Theron shared my confusion, I found out later.)

When we entered the room, Faren froze. Only being jostled by those of us behind him brought him back, and he growled. “Leske. What the fuck?”

The dwarf next to Jarvia laughed. “What did you expect?” He gestured around himself. “You know this life. Or did you forget how things work for people like us in Orzammar already?” Leske looked pointedly at Anya.

An arrow flew over our heads. One of Jarvia’s henchmen crumpled. Everyone turned to stare at Theron, who shrugged. “It didn’t seem like we were getting anywhere.”

Jarvia laughed, and the fight was on. Not that it was much of a fight; even with her henchmen scattered through the room, our numbers were simply greater. I couldn’t say for certain if we had better fighters, as I heard Darrien and Neria both cry out from injuries. An arrow caught in the sleeve of my robes, slicing a long but shallow nick along my forearm.

I looked up from the arrow to see Littlefoot bowl over the guilty dwarf, the effort knocking his helmet off, though he held tight to his bow and the arrow still in his hand. It didn’t help him much. He scraped Littlefoot’s side, but my mabari was too clever and ignored the pain. Littlefoot clamped his jaws around the dwarf’s short neck, and I had to look away.

A good thing I did; I managed to paralyze a dwarf who had just exited the shadows with the intent of flanking Neria. Neria was still unused to physical combat, even with the memories from the ancient Arcane Warrior aiding her. She forgot to watch her back, and since she was already bleeding… Well, she didn’t need another injury. She nodded to me as she slit the paralyzed dwarf’s throat.

I heard metal clanging against metal from all sides; it was difficult to decipher where individual sounds came from. Capella, Leliana, and Theron had all stopped firing arrows; I heard Theron mutter elvish curses in frustration, but even I could see that there were no opponents the archers could safely hit. They were all too closely engaged with our own companions.

Daylen came up next to me and quietly healed my arm as we waited. Morrigan placed glyphs on the floor, but they didn’t do much. She couldn’t put them too close to the fights or risk catching one of ours, and dwarves were already resistant to magic, so the few she did catch weren’t nearly so affected as others we’d fought. She slammed her staff on the ground and paced as she watched.

I helped Daylen and Wynne with their shields and healing spells, though I was no pro at either. At least my added magic managed to cause a dagger to bounce harmlessly away from Darrien’s shoulder. The resulting stagger was all he needed to drive his greatsword through the dwarf’s exposed neck, decapitating him.

I swallowed and shut my eyes, waiting for the sounds of struggle to end before I reopened them. I had grown more accustomed to such gore over the few months I’d yet been in Thedas, but even so, I was more prepared to see it used on creatures and people who were truly evil. Darkspawn. The cultists. Even bandits.

Nudging my hand, Littlefoot insisted on being shown that my arm had already been healed before he stopped worrying. There was still blood on my robes, after all, and he was nothing if not loyal. I stroked his head and carefully applied healing magic to the cuts he’d received. He licked my cheek.

Faren growled at Leske’s body, but our job was done. Zevran led the looting and soon we were out once more, trooping back to the royal palace in a group unable to be missed. The blood on our clothes and armor drew fewer stares than I may have expected--or, at least, there wasn’t as great an increase in staring.

Bhelen just about laughed in delight when we reported back to him. He was giddy and it was almost off-putting how he pressed one hand over his breastplate in joy. “I never doubted you, Anya,” he said, a grin splitting his face. His teeth were bright compared to his beard.

“You’d do well to remember that, then,” she answered. I couldn’t see her face, but her voice was smooth and cold as marble. It reminded me of a song lyric: _I am a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm._

“Indeed.” Bhelen’s grin didn’t lessen, didn’t grow, and he observed us. “I don’t know if this will turn the heads of the Assembly as much as it should. I’ll speak with you at dinner.”

We were dismissed, then. He didn’t say such, but he moved to sit at his desk and write upon some papers. Vartag Gavorn coughed when Anya seemed disinclined to move, and I skittered to the door. I had no desire to stay where I was unwanted.

 

After that and lunch, I wrote yet more in my journal as we waited for the hours to pass til dinner. It was getting fuller than I expected, and I was having more and more trouble remembering everything. The smaller questlines in Inquisition were escaping me like so much vapor; I didn’t know what to do about it. Most were unimportant in the scheme of defeating Corypheus, though, so… Well, I let them fade into the background.

I thought about editing my previous statements to mention finding Anya and Faren waiting for us, but it seemed too much work. Was that conceited? Perhaps. But Varric wouldn’t need that information, I reasoned. Writing other things down was more important than explaining yet another thing that hadn’t gone the way it should have.

Darrien, who had taken to sharing my tent and rooms, seemed less than impressed with Harrowmont the more he heard of the man. He vented to me about it briefly. I understood, mostly; though Harrowmont seemed a kind person, he was also immovably traditional, and in Orzammar, amongst dwarves, that meant upholding the caste system and degrading the casteless.

It doubtlessly reminded Darrien of his life in the alienage at the hands of humans like Vaughn, or others who thought themselves so kind for not outright speaking ill of elves. I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t something I thought anyone should be subjected to.

I knew what Bhelen would ask next of us. Yet, somehow, I still felt surprised when, as we consumed dinner with a large helping of awkward tension, he mentioned Branka. He, Anya, and Faren spent a good ten minutes in rapid discussion about Branka; whether she was alive, what she had gone to do, where to find her or her remains. The rest of us could only listen, and, truthfully, even Faren had little to add but skepticism that she would still live.

(I knew better. I gave the last of my meat to Littlefoot and pushed my plate away. My hands twisted my robes as I stared at the silverware.)

“We ran into Oghren in Tapster’s,” Anya said at one point. “He may have more information.”

Bhelen snorted at the idea, waving a fork dismissively. “He’s a drunkard who can barely keep himself together.”

They dissolved into more debate. I tried not to think about what a Broodmother would look like in person. Everyone else ate and watched; there were no side conversations worth having, it seemed.

We would leave the next day after breakfast, it was soon decided. As if anything else should have happened. I wondered how far, exactly, the Deep Trenches were from Orzammar. Could it be traversed in a matter of days? Not hours, certainly. Perhaps, if we were lucky, it would take only hours to reach Caridin’s Cross.

Bhelen gave us some maps to look over, and the lot of us gathered in a small parlor to contemplate and plan. It devolved quickly; Capella, Anya, and Theron easily took over majority of the planning, with some input from Alistair or the older companions. The dogs laid over one another by the fireplace, dozing off, and I joined them as a cat.

I didn’t doze like the dogs, though. I watched my friends. Leliana and Neria came to sit nearby, and Wynne fended off Zevran’s comments by striking up stilted conversation with Sten. Darrien and Castor were talking in a corner about something I couldn’t hear, but I thought I saw a blush on Darrien’s face.

When Faren came and sat heavily in an armchair, Leliana considered the look on his face. It was calm, to me. He stared at the flames behind me, jaw in his hand, and said nothing. He rarely seemed to have anything to add, truth be told. Probably the result of his life in Dust Town, before this whole mess.

“I would like to sing,” Leliana announced, then, and Faren glanced up at her. Neria clapped and scooted closer to her, and Zevran grinned as he joined the group by the fire.

“I think I speak for us all when I say we would enjoy that, no?” Zevran said, looking around the room for dissent. He found none. Even those bent over the map had paused to watch Leliana expectantly. “Please, grace us with that lovely voice.”

Leliana smiled at him; her singing was one of the few things he complimented sincerely, and she knew that. “It is an old song from Ferelden,” she explained, straightening her back to sit tall and proper. “I learned it when I was very young.”

Even the mabari had picked up their heads to gaze at her, now. She took a deep breath, and began to sing. _“There were two sisters of county Clare, O the wind and the rain…”_

I blinked as I recognized the tune. It was an old, old song--or had been, perhaps--with many variations. Leliana’s voice held the melody beautifully. I felt the sadness of it wrap around me, somehow sweet with her softness.

The song was of two sisters, in every version I’d seen, though the exact story changed each time. Sometimes they were approached by a knight, sometimes they were in love with a baker. Leliana sang one that had them in love with the miller’s son; she did not sing a mention of the drowned sister’s body being discovered, though the drowning did happen. It was a fiddle that was made of the sister’s bones and hair, too. I had heard it made into a harp.

_“...The only tune that the fiddle would play was O, the dreadful wind and rain.”_ Leliana held the last note briefly, and then let silence hold us.

“That was… gore-geous,” Anya said, after a beat, and if I could have laughed as a cat, I would have. Leliana did, though most everyone else groaned at the ex-princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the wind and rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MtnKT2ipRgs), the version leliana sings. as mentioned, it's an old-ass song with lots of variations. sometimes it's called the two/twa sisters.
> 
> so, as i'm writing this out, i'm thinking it'll be around 22 chapters. i'm on 20 right now, and i don't think it'll get longer than 22. updating should continue as normal at least until i've finished updating this one--i'm planning to make this a series spanning the entirety of the dragon age series as it currently exists. school's starting back up for me this coming week, though, and i have a con and work's gonna be picking up, so while it shouldn't have any effect here for a while, i might not be able to write as much in the future. this might culminate in me running out of pre-written chapters before school lets back out, which means updates will become sporadic at best. i'll try not to let that happen, but no promises. i will make any notable updates in future author's notes, though.


	14. this some nasty

Oghren stopped us as we approached the entrance to the Deep Roads. “You’re going to find Branka,” he accused, and when we didn’t correct him, he huffed. “Figures. Two years of askin’ and nothin’ happenin’, and now that they want an ass on the throne, Bhelen’s sendin’ out people t’actually find ‘er.”

“It’s not how I would have liked to do this,” Anya said to him. “Why are you here, Oghren?”

“I’m her husband!” He pointed an angry finger to her. “I’m not ‘bout to let her die in there just ‘cause you don’t know how to find her!”

Anya gritted her teeth, and Capella stepped in. “We would welcome any help, of course. Bhelen has given us maps of her last known location.”

Oghren sniffed and gave Capella a once-over before nodding. “Yeah, figured he’d’ve done that. But none of you know Branka like I do. Between my knowledge and your maps, we might actually have a chance.”

There was a pause. Capella looked at Anya. Anya looked at Capella. They looked to Theron, shrugged, and Capella smiled at Oghren. “Welcome aboard.”

“Well, what’re y’waitin’ for?” he demanded when we stood there watching him. “Let’s go!”

It didn’t take long for me to decide that I agreed with Anders on the subject of the Deep Roads. Darkspawn and spiders were everywhere. I was already arachnophobic, so the fact that these weren’t small spiders but rather enormous ones absolutely terrified me. I tried not to whimper too much.

Between the darkspawn and spiders, it took us just under two hours to reach the Aeducan Thaig. “It should have taken one hour,” Anya muttered. “There weren’t this many spiders the other day.”

“Yeah, but we were following a group that had already worked their way through then,” Alistair said, kicking a spider out of the way. No one but me seemed quite so bothered by the giant spiders, so I got the distinct feeling that he was doing it for my benefit.

Anya sighed. We continued ever onward, with her and Oghren in the lead. Theron and Capella kept closer to the middle of the group than usual, but they didn’t know the Deep Roads. (Plus, quite frankly, Theron was not exactly talented with maps in the first place, and they were both disoriented by the lack of sun.)

We passed several tunnels that had caved in since the maps were drawn, which made it difficult to get to Caridin’s Cross; frequently, we had to backtrack to find another way around. At least there were a great number of tunnels here, both from when the dwarven kingdom was spread far and wide as well as newer ones constructed by the darkspawn, smugglers, or others.

Deepstalkers ambushed us a few times, but they were easy enough to defeat. I felt a bit bad about killing them, actually; they were kind of cute. They reminded me of velociraptors, but less feathered. At least they didn’t make the same pathetic squeaks when they died as in the game. Only Leliana seemed to understand my reluctance to hurt them.

We had packed enough food for two weeks, and thankfully Oghren had brought his own. There wasn’t exactly much to forage in the Deep Roads unless we ate deepstalker meat. (No one even dared suggest Darkspawn. We all knew the risks too well.)

Without the sun’s movement to say when it had become night, we simply continued walking until we found someplace that looked both stable and defensible. The first night, as we reached Caridin’s Cross, we found a small tunnel that had partially caved in. I tried to protest, worried that the partial cave-in could extend to where we set up camp, but the dwarves all assured me it was safe.

Regardless, sleep came slowly that night. I had a nightmare of darkspawn inciting the roof to cave in, and woke up well before anyone else. I used that time to write in my journal, leaning against Littlefoot’s back. We hadn’t bothered with bringing our tents into Orzammar, and so even now, we slept in the open on the ground. I could see all of my companions.

Castor, who had been awake as part of watch duty, noticed that I was awake soon enough. He came to sit by me. “Nightmares?” he asked.

I nodded. “Darkspawn.”

“I had some, too. Think Capella might have, but I’m not sure,” he said. He gestured over to the tunnel’s entrance, where Shale stood guard. “Shale’s been quieter than usual. I don’t think he likes it down here.”

I resisted the urge to immediately correct the pronoun. Even now, Shale wouldn’t know who she was. “Didn’t Shale say she remembered darkness? That sounds like the Deep Roads to me.” Or, at least, parts of Aeducan Thaig.

“Mm.” He watched the golem. “Think we’ll find anything about golems while we’re out here?”

“Yes,” I answered, and stifled my laughter. “Branka was looking for the Anvil of the Void, right? Oghren seems confident that if she was gone so long, she found something. So, if we find her…”

Castor snickered. “You sure you wanna place your faith in Oghren? He seems halfway to eternal drunkenness.”

I looked over at where we could see Oghren sleeping just far enough to be distinctly separate. “We’ll find her,” I said, and Castor stared at me.

“Another premonition?”

“You could call it that, I suppose.” I looked at him from the corner of my eye. His eyebrows were drawn together as he frowned, blatantly examining my face. I turned to face him properly, but he didn’t stop.

“As much as I like it,” he said, at long last, “your little gift is fuckin’ creepy.”

I smiled at him. “Useful, though,” I reminded.

“Yeah. But you’re--” He made an aborted wave of his hand. “You’re so…” He huffed. “Dammit, it’s too early for words to work right.”

I hummed. “Well, I promise I won’t take offense?” I tried.

He eyed me. “You better not, because I do like you just fine.” He pursed his lips and crossed his arms. “There’s just something about you that’s incredibly different from everyone else, and it’s kind of disconcerting sometimes.”

I swallowed. “You sure it’s not because I’m Dalish?”

“Nah,” he said, “because I don’t get the same feeling from Theron. And not ‘cause you’re a mage, because the others don’t feel that way.” He stopped. “Well, maybe Morrigan, sometimes, but I think she does it on purpose.”

“Probably.” I smoothed out my robes. “I guess I’m just so special even other people can feel it,” I said, allowing a self-satisfied smirk to slide over my lips.

He snorted. “Sure.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Yeah, but I was being serious.”

“You’re never serious.”

“...Okay, you got me there.”

“Except maybe about Darrien.”

“Too bad he can’t see it.”

 

There wasn’t much talking done as we trudged through the tunnels. Some of it was because of the quiet pressing in around us. Mostly it was an effort to avoid attracting the attention of darkspawn and deepstalkers, though the sheer size of our group may have rendered that useless. We tried, anyways, and it was also easier to hear the scratching of other things moving when we weren’t adding to the noise.

I started to notice the difference between feeling my fellow Wardens’ presence and that of darkspawn. I’d read some people’s ideas Before that it felt like scratching against the back of your skull when darkspawn came near, but that didn’t seem right to me. It wasn’t my skull that felt the scratching, but my brain matter. It felt like prickling against the back of my brain, oddly precise in placement, that dragged against the surface, catching on folds.

At least Alistair could give us numbers. He could even warn if there was an ogre or an emissary. Genlocks and hurlocks felt too similar, he told us as we ate one night. Soon, we’d be able to figure out the differences like that, too. For now it just felt like being scratched, but without pain. (Still, it was more specific than it had been when we first became Wardens. Then, I could hardly differentiate between darkspawn and Wardens.)

It was good, too. Ortan Thaig may not have been home to darkspawn, but the roads beyond it were. We held our breath more often than not as Alistair tried to determine if the darkspawn we could sense nearby were anywhere they could get to us. I could feel my muscles growing sore from the near-constant tension. I didn’t panic, though, even if it was hard to breathe and harder to sleep.

Leliana sang each night. It wasn’t necessarily the wisest thing, when we were trying to keep from being detected, but it soothed our collective nerves, and that alone made it worthwhile. Sometimes, some of us would sing with her. I did more often than not, letting the vibrations of it rattle my chest and calm my heartbeat.

We reached the Dead Trenches on the fifth day. (Between Oghren, Anya, and Faren, we were relatively sure that we hadn’t completely lost track of time.) The pinching-peeling-pressing feeling that darkspawn gave me had grown steadily stronger, and on top of it all was the prickling presence of something More.

No one voiced this something More, but we Wardens all knew it was there, and thanks to our collective nightmares, we all knew what it was. The dread that draped over us drowned any questions from our companions until we saw it:

The Archdemon.

It didn’t see us. Or maybe it did, and ignored us. I don’t know. It didn’t attack, but it screeched and screamed, flying the huge cavern in loops over the heads of the teeming horde of darkspawn below. My heart pounded. The Archdemon landed on the bridge in front of the Legion of the Dead’s forces, let out a stream of spirit-flame, and it was a miracle it could not hear my heartbeat.

And then it left. We held still for a long moment, waiting, but it didn’t return. The Legion of the Dead shouted at the darkspawn coming across the bridge, and we joined them. They nodded at us, accepting us into their ranks easily as breathing.

During a lull, Anya spoke to their leader, who laughed at her suggestion of furthering the line. “Warden,” he said, “it may be bad on the surface now, but it’s finally calm down here. We don’t get help from above. Why would we help now?”

She didn’t have an argument, and we stayed with them long enough to eat a brief meal. Then, we pressed forward once more with a half-hearted wish of luck. I didn’t know if the Legion was being sarcastic or sincere, but I thanked them anyway.

We approached the ancient fortress, an old hold of the Legion of the Dead. Neither Anya or Faren could tell us much about it; Anya admitted that the Legion was overlooked, and Faren had never had much time to learn about things outside of Dust Town. Oghren grunted and shrugged, discouraging any questions.

I knew we’d see Hespith soon. Hespith and the Broodmother. It made things difficult to concentrate on, and I did need to concentrate now. There were too many darkspawn everywhere for me to guess when we would run into them. Everywhere was full of their presence, and Alistair, too, found it harder to warn us of ambushes.

Regardless, we fought our way ever forward, pushing through the creatures. Oghren seemed to gain some kind of energy from fighting, and he walked with more speed and gusto than he had since Ortan Thaig--the last place we’d seen significant signs of Branka.

“Not much farther now,” I murmured, and Theron looked over at me. I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “I’m tired of this.” I laughed.

_“First day they come and catch everyone.”_

We froze. “Did you hear that?” Castor demanded, glancing behind himself. Everyone nodded.

Alistair rolled his shoulders. “Andraste have mercy.”

We moved forward again.

_“Second day they beat us and eat some for meat.”_

We stop again, meeting eyes. Even Shale seems unnerved.

_“Third day the men are all gnawed on again.”_

I heard some gasps. Darrien cursed. We started walking, slowly. Only the sounds of armor and breath announced our presence.

_“Fourth day we wait and fear for our fate.”_

This time, we didn’t stop. Neria half-tripped, but she caught herself.

_“Fifth day they return and it’s another girl’s turn.”_

Darrien cursed louder. Oghren muttered something to himself; maybe he could recognize Hespith’s voice. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t ask.

_“Sixth day her screams we hear in our dreams.”_

No reaction. No one dared.

_“Seventh day she grew as in her mouth they spew._

_“Eighth day we hated as she is violated.”_

At this, Darrien unsheathed his greatsword and made a sound like a growl, walking faster. No one stopped him, but we matched his pace.

_“Ninth day she grins and devours her kin.”_

He stumbled to a halt. Not what he’d expected, I thought. From the looks on the faces I could see, it wasn’t what anyone expected. Neria looked sick. I motioned that we should continue. No one moved for a long moment.

_“Now she does feast as she’s become the beast.”_

That woke them. We moved, following the narrow corridor. I couldn’t see much of it, for which I was glad. The fear was oppressive enough simply knowing already what to expect; I did not envy those at the front, my friends who did not know.

_“Now you lay and wait, for their screams will haunt you in your dreams.”_

We rounded a corner, and Oghren gasped. “Hespith!”

I was too short to see her, but I heard Anya speak with her. I heard her lament the loss of her kin and Laryn’s fate. Neria gagged when she heard what had happened, and Leliana rubbed the back of her neck.

I didn’t listen closely to the conversation. My knuckles were white on my staff, and I used the time to force myself to relax. It was easy enough, but I knew it wouldn’t last. I’d never managed to make it last, even Before. But it would have to do for now.

Only as the group began to move again did I return myself to my surroundings. Wynne put a hand on my shoulder and smiled thinly at me. It gave me the strength to walk with them. Hespith’s disembodied voice said something. I didn’t catch it. Nearing the bend, we heard her speak again:

_“Broodmother.”_

No one but me knew what that meant. Except maybe Alistair, but it had never quite been clear just what his level of knowledge about darkspawn was, and in the game, he never addressed the topic of the Broodmother, even after encountering it.

The Broodmother screamed when we came into view. “Oh gods,” Theron whispered.

The stench was like sour milk and rotting meat. The ground beneath our feet rumbled, a threat immediately understood by all. Roaring again, the Broodmother reached for us with her tentacles. Some burst through the floor to better reach us, and we scattered.

“Sten, Darrien, Oghren, Alistair!” Anya called. “With me! Keep its attention.”

“Mind the arms!” I warned, skittering back against a wall.

Tentacles blocked the major efforts made by Anya’s little squadron, but they hacked away. I hadn’t known tentacles would be so difficult to cut through, but they repelled even Sten’s meticulously maintained blade (not his own, yet, they still hadn’t realized it was in Redcliffe).

“Archers, mages, to the back wall!” Capella said as she joined me. She shot arrows even as she instructed. Her shots were more carefully aimed than usual, taking longer between each one. “Leliana, Theron, we’ll focus on its head. Wynne, Daylen, keep everyone whole. Morrigan, Vir’era, do what you can to slow the tentacles and--fuck, scratch that.”

Darkspawn were rushing into the room past us. Capella adjusted her aim and shot down a genlock headed for us. “Leliana, get the archers to the right. Theron, to the left. Morrigan, Vir’era, area spells if you know any.”

Castor shouted similar commands at the other fighters. Shale picked up two hurlocks and crushed their heads together like eggs. I didn’t know any area spells, but I could manage the simple elemental things and paralyze glyphs. I alternated Winter’s Grasp and the glyph, using the former more on tentacles getting too close to friends, since I didn’t know how the glyph would affect them--if it would.

Numbers were on our side, at least. Or I liked to think they were. I didn’t bother counting the darkspawn, but none of them were quite as skilled at fighting as we were, anyways, so maybe it counted.

It was still chaos, though. The tentacles and the darkspawn made it hard to see Anya’s group, if a second could even be spared to look for them. I froze a tentacle and Neria rammed her shield into it, making it shatter. She smiled at me, and I nodded, glancing over to see how the others were doing.

This was a bad choice. Something scraped against my side and I shouted. When I looked down, there was an arrow clattering to the floor and a deep cut on my side, revealed by the new tear in my robes. _Maybe I should try armor,_ I thought, and then the blood had clotted and I was half-healed.

“Focus!” Wynne said. I blinked, shook my head.

“Thank you,” I replied, and paralyzed a genlock that was getting too close.

She just shook her head at me, but she was half-smiling. I wondered how she could smile at a time like this, facing a creature like the Broodmother. There wasn’t time to contemplate, though. Someone else shouted, and she was once again sending a healing spell across the battlefield.

I focused on the battle again, casting glyph after glyph with scattered Winter’s Grasp. To the left, Morrigan had summoned a tiny blizzard, completely devouring the shapes of three archers. Theron made a frustrated sound, unable to hit through that, but Zevran braved the magic from behind where the archers had stood. He came out with bloody daggers and Morrigan canceled the spell.

Theron shot an arrow into the final genlock archer’s head before it could recover and enact revenge. Zevran grinned and blew a kiss at him, making Theron roll his eyes, but I could see him smiling.

There was a loud squeal, like a thousand pigs being speared, and I looked forward to see Sten and Darrien both with their swords buried in the Broodmother’s front. But she was not yet dead, and she reached angrily for them. Sten ripped his sword from her and rolled away; Darrien was caught.

A tentacle wrapped around his upper body and I could see it straining to tighten around his armor. She shouted at him again, disgusting, discolored blood spilling from the open wound of Sten’s sword and from around Darrien’s.

Castor’s voice breached the din. “Darrien!” I watched him run at the Broodmother. She paid him no mind, completely focused on the prey already in her grip. I held my breath. I heard the twang of arrows being released even still, but I could not tear my eyes from Castor.

“Andraste’s tits,” Capella cursed. “Castor, don’t you dare die on me…”

He jumped at the Broodmother, launching himself further against a tentacle, and landed on her back. He dragged both daggers across her neck, then jabbed them against her spine for good measure. She thrashed for a few seconds, and he held on desperately. Darrien was dropped, but let out an encouraging grunt. He wasn’t dead, at least.

And then the Broodmother tried to scream again, but only bubbling blood came through, and she slumped. A few tentacles still twitched, and I doubted she’d be fully dead for a few minutes yet, but the immediate danger was over. Alistair beheaded the last darkspawn as Wynne rushed to Darrien. Castor was already there.

I averted my eyes, tending instead to my own wound. My healing was nowhere as advanced as even Daylen’s, but he was also busy, and I could manage. Littlefoot whined when he came over and saw the injury, but I reassured him. “It’s okay, buddy. Just a little cut.”

He gave me the stinkeye, and I laughed, which stung a bit. Even he knew that had been a lie. “Okay, okay, more than a little cut, but I’m okay.” I pooled the healing magic and my skin knit itself together, pushing up a scab of the clotted blood until it fell to the ground. “See?”

I had a scar, now, and maybe I wouldn’t have if Wynne or Daylen had healed me, but I didn’t mind. Littlefoot licked it, and the new skin was very ticklish, because I giggled and pushed him away gently. He was satisfied, though, and he sneezed as he lifted up a paw, which I realized was bleeding.

“Thank you for showing me,” I said, and healed it. It was harder to heal than I expected, but I quickly realized that was due to exhaustion more than anything else. Raising my head, I glanced around to see if anyone else felt the same.

Neria was sitting on the ground, leaning against Leliana. I could see her panting, and nearby, Oghren had laid down on the ground. He held up a hand and waved when Anya asked if he was even alive still, grunting something probably uncomplimentary. She just snickered.

Theron sighed next to me and slid down the wall. “That,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the Broodmother, “was disgusting.”

I hummed in agreement.


	15. fifteen there's no tiiiiiiiime for love

We shuffled from the Broodmother’s cave after Hespith spoke to us once more. Each time Hespith mentioned Branka, Oghren clenched his fists. I knew he wasn’t fond of Hespith as it was, but… He didn’t seem to like the things she implied about Branka, either. I wasn’t eager to see his reaction when he learned the truth. (Sure, I knew what it would be. I knew it, but as with everything thus far, I also knew it would be more intense than on a screen.)

There was a little alcove along the tunnel between the Broodmother and where we would meet Branka, just large enough for our group to hide out in. We wasted no time taking advantage of it. Darrien, though healed of the initial injury, was still reeling from the Broodmother’s shaking. Wynne and Daylen fell asleep quickly, barely spreading their bedrolls out before they were gone.

Adrenaline was still active in my body, though, and I volunteered for first watch. Shale took up just about the entirety of the entrance to the alcove, and was really a good enough watch on her own, but should something happen, it was always wise to have at least one other person awake and ready.

Theron and Faren joined me. We probably didn’t need four people on watch, but no one had the energy to dispute them, and it likely made the group feel safer, anyways. I spread my bedroll near the entrance and sat against the wall. Littlefoot curled up at my side, but he fell asleep. I didn’t bother trying to keep him awake.

The other two joined me; Theron sat beside me as well, and Faren leaned against the wall across from us. He kept glancing to us, then returning his gaze to whatever part of the tunnel he could see past Shale’s legs, then looking at us again.

Eventually, Theron grew tired of it. “What is it?” he asked, quietly enough that he wouldn’t disturb those who were sleeping. (I doubted much would, though. Alistair was laying closest, and he seemed to sleep through almost anything.)

Faren sighed and scratched his beard. But he faced us as he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, alright? But your, uh, your marks. Tattoos or whatever. I noticed just the two of you have ‘em, not the other elves.”

“Oh,” Theron said, apparently not expecting that. “Yes. We’re Dalish. Darrien and Zevran are from the city, and Neria is, too, sort of.”

Faren nodded. “Yeah, okay. But you don’t have the same… marks.”

“They’re called vallaslin,” Theron explained. “And no, we don’t. Why?”

The dwarf pointed to the tattoo-brand on his right cheek. “Made me think of this. But I’m guessin’ it’s different for you.”

Theron blinked, then looked at me. “Casteless dwarves, like Faren,” I told him, “are… marked, when they’re young. To identify them.”

I felt Theron stiffen and saw him clench his jaw. He looked at Faren again, who was watching the exchange with interest, and spoke. “Yes, it is very different, then. Vallaslin are not… brands. They are a rite of passage.”

“Oh,” Faren said. He snorted. “Sounds a lot better’n this shit. So, is there a meaning to why yours are different?”

“Each vallaslin is specific to a different member of our pantheon.” Theron tapped his cheek once, bringing attention to the dark black lines on his face. “I bear the vallaslin of Falon’Din, the Friend to the Dead. He guides us to the Beyond when we have died.” Faren nodded, and Theron pointed to my forehead. “Vir’era has the vallaslin of Ghilan’nain, the Halla-Mother. She was the first halla, and it is she who helps them to guide our aravels.”

I hadn’t seen my reflection since entering Thedas. At least, not clearly—I had seen hazy glimpses in various metals and the occasional stream when we stopped to bathe, but no true image. This was the first I had heard of which vallaslin I bore, and I tried not to let the surprise show on my face.

Ghilan’nain. I wondered if that meant something. I had not chosen it, had not had the opportunity to. It came with my new body, with the spells I cast by instinct and the pointed ears I knew I hadn’t had before. I wanted to ask Theron what color my vallaslin was. I knew it wasn’t black or dark, or I may have been able to guess at what it was before.

Faren’s voice stopped me, though. “Nice. Do all your gods guide people?”

Theon laughed, muffled behind one gloved hand. “No,” he said. “And yes. But only in the way that any god is meant to guide their faithful. It is a coincidence that he and I should both have guides for our patrons, I assure you.”

“Gotta say, god of the dead sure seems appropriate given your, uh, partner.” Faren grinned at Theron, jerking his head over to where Zevran’s sleeping form could just be made out in the darkness.

Theron snorted. “I hadn’t thought of that. Don’t you dare tell him. He’ll be insufferable if he finds out.”

“Might do it just to see.”

“He’ll be obnoxious, I’m sure of it.”

“More’n usual?”

Theron half-choked at that. “Yes.” Then he glared. “Don’t tell him I said that, either.”

Faren snickered and made an x over his heart. “Cross my heart.”

I don’t think either Theron or myself quite believed him, but Theron just shook his head and accepted it. Zevran would find out about the vallaslin eventually, anyways, and I suspected he’d only be more ridiculous about it the longer it took for him to find out.

 

I was woken up by Capella the next “morning.” We didn’t spend much time in the little alcove once everyone was awake. The darkspawn were near enough that we could hear the echoes of their chittering, and we didn’t want to be caught. So we shoved some bread and cheese down our throats and hauled our packs onto our shoulders before setting off once again.

“This place has Branka written all over it,” Oghren said, after a while. He pointed out the signs he was following, the little chips taken from the wall and other minute details that I couldn’t understand. “If she’s still around, she’ll be prepared.”

She was, of course. Both around and prepared. As soon as we crossed the threshold of the tunnel into a larger cavern, rocks blocked our way back. “What was that?” Oghren asked, as Darrien cursed loudly.

“Let me be blunt with you.” The voice came from over the ledge in front of us, and was followed by Branka herself. She was shorter than I expected. Dirtier, but I suppose that was understandable, and while I remembered her seeming simply grouchy and mildly off her rocker, she was intense now. I could feel her gaze scrape over each of us as she spoke, her voice hardly inflecting. She moved with complete purpose, not a step unintentional and not a gesture wasted.

She wasn’t as delighted to see Oghren as he was to see her, but she answered Anya’s questions. Darrien muttered under his breath at half her statements, making Castor snort more than once. Branka ignored them. Her eyes dragged over my face again, pausing just long enough to take in my vallaslin and my ears before they pulled away. She looked at our weapons. At the three dwarves. At Shale in the back.

She smiled for a half-second, a ghost of emotion, then faced us fully once more. “Enough questions!” she declared. “If you wish me to get involved with this imbecilic election, I must first have the Anvil.” Her eyes glinted in the red glow of the lava below. “There’s only one way out, Wardens: Forward. Through Caridin’s maze and out to where the Anvil waits.”

Oghren yelled at her in frustration. She didn’t care. She dismissed his words with hardly a glance to acknowledge he’d spoken and turned to walk forward.

“She’s insane,” Darrien said.

“She’s just confused.” Oghren glared at Darrien, who glared back.

Anya snapped to get their attention, and we trooped through the tunnel to the left, following it inevitably towards Branka’s most recent camp. We passed several dwarven corpses. The survivors of the darkspawn trap, I guessed. They hadn’t survived long. Watching us as we neared, Branka began to detail the plan that had led her to this point. I tried to ignore her.

It was easier when the darkspawn started attacking, at least. The screams of shrieks drowned out her voice and the concentration needed to avoid injury to myself or my friends filled in when there were no screams. I was glad for the distraction. Hearing what she’d done, what she’d decided acceptable and necessary in this endless quest for the Anvil of the Void… No, I already knew, and I didn’t want to be reminded.

The melee fighters didn’t hear Branka’s words, except on occasion. I could tell when they caught something: they’d pause just long enough to stare incredulously at Branka, who was ranting from behind a short wall. Theron muttered to himself as she continued. She didn’t stop, didn’t care, didn’t help.

By the time the darkspawn stopped flowing forth to challenge us, she had thankfully finished her speech. We waited in tense silence in case more would come. A minute passed, with only labored breathing and the muffled scrape of shifting armor to fill the silence. Another minute, and nothing. Relaxing, we regrouped. The lava was closer here, the heat more intense. I could see the sweat on everyone’s faces. Not even the dwarves were immune.

“What now?” Castor asked, wiping one of his daggers on a cloth that looked to have been stolen from one of the darkspawn bodies.

“We face Caridin’s gauntlet,” Anya said. Everyone shifted a bit. Most of us had been in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I think they wondered if it would be similar.

“Any advice, Vee?” I blinked at Castor. A nickname? No one had bothered before now. It was… nice.

“Um,” I started, then nodded and lowered my voice. “Well… yes. First: Caridin is… still alive. Sort of.” I glanced at Shale, unsure if I should say everything I knew. “As a golem. The gauntlet is—”

Interrupting me, Darrien grabbed my shoulder. “Hold up, back up. You said Caridin is alive?” He had the sense to keep his voice low, at least. I didn’t know if Branka could hear us or not, but I didn’t think it would be wise to simply let her. Darrien pointed at Anya. “Didn’t you say he was one of those ancient Paragons or whatever? From before the Deep Roads were darkspawn territory?”

Anya nodded. “He is,” she said. “I’m more interested in the ‘as a golem’ part.”

“As am I,” Shale added, leaning close. “Are you certain you are not mistaken?”

I swallowed. “I—Caridin will explain, okay? I don’t know exactly… I just know that it’s true.” I paused to let them acquiesce. I knew they had questions, and, frankly, I had questions, too, but I didn’t have the answers for them. Or, at least, not enough. And it really wasn’t the time.

“The gauntlet,” I said, returning to the point of the conversation, “is entirely different from at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There’s… I don’t remember the order. But there will be one room with poison gas and sentry golems. The gas can be emptied through valves, but the golems must be defeated. Another room has traps and more golems. Yet another room has…” I pursed my lips. “A thing. I don’t know how to describe it, but it has four faces. We need to defeat the spirits of the anvils around it, make the faces cry, and then make them stop. It’s… It will make more sense when we’re there.”

Capella nodded. “Anything else?”

I struggled to remember. The Deep Roads was my least favorite part. “I don’t… think so? We should enter a cavern where Caridin himself guards the Anvil of the Void last.” I did not mention we would need to fight him or Branka. I didn’t know how to say that.

If they could sense I was withholding information, no one called me out on it. Our little huddle broke and we started towards the tunnel through which the darkspawn had come.

To my surprise, the first room was the gas-room. As soon as we were in, we could smell it—could see it as it floated around our feet. It was denser than most of the air, but even the amount that reached us was painful. The gas, whatever it was, made it hard to breathe, blocking oxygen from our lungs.

Anya and Shale stepped onto the platform that held the four golems, and one of them came to life immediately. I tugged on Theron’s arm, knowing his arrows would be of little use against the rock creatures, and pointed at the valves to the left. He nodded, skirting around the platform to reach them. I did the same for the valves to the right. I wasn’t sure if more of the golems would awaken with more people stepping on the platform, so I avoided it entirely.

It took me a moment to figure out which way I was meant to turn the valve to shut it, and in that moment I could feel the gas pressing against my lungs and stealing my breath. When I did manage it, I huffed out a breath of relief. But the gas hadn’t stopped—it had slowed, and quite considerably, but it wasn’t gone. I frowned and pushed the valve more. It didn’t budge.

I looked across the room for Theron. It was hard to make him out through the haze of gas and the fight on the platform, but he seemed confused, as well. He met my gaze and pointed at the gas. I shrugged exaggeratedly and tried not to let my breathing get too shallow. Theron made a face I knew to be angry and turned to pace—but he turned back quickly and pointed urgently at the wall he’d faced.

There was another valve. My eyes widened and I whirled to face the wall opposite my valve. Just as on Theron’s side, there was a second valve. Had that always been there? I didn’t let myself ponder for long. Lunging across the little space, I pushed one way and then the other on this new valve until I felt it give and shut. The hissing of whatever was releasing the gas cut off.

A resounding thunk brought my attention back to the battle. Two golems had been downed already. Shale was mocking them, apparently pleased about being the only golem (so far) to have free will. Oghren had the beginnings of a major bruise on his head. (That’s what you get for not wearing a helmet.) Darrien was leaning against a wall, panting. I saw him start to slip down, and quickly ran over.

“The gas makes it hard to breathe,” I explained as I pulled one of his arms around my shoulders. “But it’s dense and we should be alright if we don’t sink down.”

He grunted at me. He probably didn’t have the breath for much more.

The third golem managed to punch Shale into a wall. She only barely missed crushing Theron, who immediately scrambled to stand with myself and Darrien. He brought Darrien’s other arm around his own shoulders, thankfully; I was not the strongest person, and between Darrien’s armor and my own breathlessness, it was harder than I expected to keep him standing upright. Darrien protested, but not enough to stop us.

Sten roared at the golem, and it turned its attention to him. This gave Daylen the opening he needed, and a well-cast crushing prison crumbled the golem to pieces. Shale huffed as she rejoined those on the platform, unimpressed with the magic. (Was she ever?)

The fourth and final golem went down as quickly as the rest had, though it was Oghren and his maul that got to boast final blow. He snickered and smirked at the rest of us and was rewarded with exasperated sighs and more than a few rolled eyes.

The next room was the traps-and-more-golems room. I guess I’d remembered the order better than I thought, though if I were to be honest I had expected this one first. Capella and Zevran worked together to disable the first blade trap. They started to cross so they could disable the next one, but as soon as they entered the line of sight for the golems standing guard between the traps, the golems moved.

Alistair ran forward to shield-bash one golem. The attack did little other than get the golem’s attention, but that was enough; Capella and Zevran ducked to start on disabling the trap. Sten slammed the pommel of his greatsword into the other golem, successfully dividing the two golems from a single attacker.

As the left golem began to throw a large piece of debris, Shale pounded the floor to disorient the second. Neria ran up and jumped off Shale’s back to wrap herself around the head of the second golem, hands sparkling with ice magic as she froze it in place. Oghren shattered it, once more claiming the killing blow and once more far too pleased with himself for it. Daylen grumbled about insufferable dwarves while Morrigan cast a spell I didn’t quite catch to end the first golem.

We crept forward again. The second pair of golems didn’t move until we had just about reached the door, but they were dispatched in the same manner as the first pair. Well, mostly. Oghren didn’t get a final blow this time, though. He didn’t seem too put out.

All that remained, then, was the weird four-faced anvil-spirit… thing. What even was it? As we stepped closer, what little light made it into the room dimmed and the eyes of the face we could see began to glow. “Vir’era?” Capella asked. “What was the strategy you spoke of?”

I swallowed and pointed at the anvils. “There’s four anvils. They’ll summon spirits soon. Defeat the spirit, hit the anvil. Something will… go to the face that’s, uh, facing the anvil. The glowing eyes will start to cry. We have to do it again, twice for each face. Once to make the face, uh, cry or whatever. Once to make it stop.”

“And the catch?”

I laughed, wondering how she knew. “The faces move after… I don’t know how long. But they’ll change what side they’re facing. Make it harder to hit them all with the anvil-charge-thing. New spirits will be summoned only after all the spirits have been defeated.”

Capella just huffed, and then the spirits appeared, as if they’d been waiting. We attacked.

Thinking fast, Capella sent some of us around the back of the four-face-spirit-thing. I was still a bit out of breath from the first room—as was Darrien, but at least he was standing and moving on his own. He went around with me, and Castor followed us. The first round was simple enough. The far specter that Darrien, Castor, and I (plus Littlefoot and Dracula, of course) had taken on didn’t go down as easily as it may have otherwise, because only Castor seemed to still be breathing just fine.

Not that the dogs would let it slow them down much, mind you. Even though he was panting loud enough for me to hear even over the general din of fighting, Littlefoot was determined to contribute to the fight. He lunged and bit as fiercely as ever, if slower than usual. Darrien had some difficulty parrying, but there were enough of us to quickly overwhelm the spirits, so it wasn’t a particularly difficult fight. Castor hit the anvil just before the faces turned.

As our crying face went to look at the group next to us (I saw Faren and Sten, but whoever was with them was out of my sight), we took in our new face. It still had glowing eyes, and Castor groaned. I heard him pause long enough to shout, “Really, Daylen? Really?”

Apparently Daylen had hit his anvil too late. Good news, though: the group on the opposite side had managed to hit their anvil in time, so even though Daylen had been slow, progress had still been made. One face was empty. Or dead? Whatever.

Daylen obviously didn’t like Castor’s exasperation, because when the next set of specters came, he didn’t deign to lend us aid. Neria did, though, apologizing on his behalf. Castor waved her words away with one hand and threw a knife through the head of the current spirit with the other. It didn’t kill or stop the thing, but it did something. Enough of something for Littlefoot and Dracula to force the spirit to the floor, which gave Darrien an opportunity to cut off its head.

I hit the anvil the second it began to glow, and the glowing eyes from Daylen’s face burst into black tears. Oil, maybe? I wasn’t close enough to recognize any smell. The face turned again, and a few moments later, the four spirits resummoned. Since it wasn’t vital to kill our spirit this time, we didn’t try as hard. I heard Sten yelling again, the clang of metal on stone, and a responding clang of metal on metal.

The spirits all disappeared, and something boomed.

“…Just the Anvil now, right?” Darrien asked me. He was trying very hard not to pant for breath. I nodded.

Castor sighed, and we joined everyone else at the front (well, arguable front) of the four-faced statue-stalactite-thing. A hot breeze swept at our legs. This room had been cooler than the cavern where Branka had made camp, but now it was warming up. We all faced the direction of the new, almost sweltering air as one.

Shale was the first to speak. “Well?” she demanded. “Is it waiting for an order?”

I didn’t know who she was addressing, but it didn’t matter; her words brought us back to the task, and we began to walk to the newly-opened door. Zevran started to pause at the chests, but Theron caught his elbow and tugged him along. He made some kind of pacifying statement about ‘later,’ but I only really registered the sound of his voice.

We had to side with Caridin. Well, maybe not, but we couldn’t let the Anvil continue its existence. We couldn’t. I wouldn’t allow it. (Nor would Shale, if I remembered correctly. Everyone else… Well, some would even approve. I tried not to linger on that.)

The air grew hotter and heavier as we walked through the tunnel-hall towards the large, lava-lit room in which Caridin stood, waiting for our arrival. Even though he didn’t have visible eyes, I could tell he was watching as we entered. It was the first time since heading into the Deep Roads I didn’t feel threatened so immediately by the sensation.

“My name is Caridin,” he said. His voice echoed in the metal armor, as though he were inside it rather than… well, rather than being it. “Once, longer ago than I care to think, I was a Paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar.”

I heard the grating of stone against itself, and Shale stepped closer. “Truly?” she asked. “You are the Paragon Smith, alive?” She didn’t sound to have doubted me, but…

“Ah!” Caridin’s helmet turned to face her. “There is a voice I recognize.” He held out one massive arm in greeting. “Shale, of the house of Cadash, step forward.”

“You… know my name,” Shale said, rocking back slightly in surprise. It was the greatest display of emotion any of us had seen yet. I felt Theron turn to face her, and could hear Castor whispering with Darrien. Shale ignored them. “Is it you that forged me, then? Is it you that gave me my name?”

Though Shale did not move again, did not lean forward or step closer, her voice lanced through the air with clear, emphatic earnest. Caridin paused, giving the impression that he was staring at her. “Have you forgotten, then? Ah… it has been so long…

“I made you into the golem you are now, Shale,” he explained, standing yet taller than he already was. He towered over even Sten. I think he was probably at least twice Anya’s height. “But before that, you were a dwarf, just as I was. The finest warrior to serve King Valtor, and the only woman to volunteer.”

“The only—woman?” If Shale’s eyes could widen, I believe they would have at that moment. “A dwarf?” Disbelief rolled off her in waves, joined by that of my companions.

Caridin nodded. “I laid you on the Anvil of the Void, here in this very room, and put you into the form you now possess.”

“The Anvil of the Void…” A misty sound colored her voice. “That is what we seek.”

Caridin looked to Anya, who stood at the front. Or, most at the front. “If you seek the Anvil,” he said, “then you must care about my story, or be doomed to relive it.” It sounded like a command.

Anya didn’t back down; her resolve made her seem as firm as the stone around her, as strong as any golem. Stronger, maybe. “You made the Anvil, right?” she asked, and Caridin began to explain the events which had culminated in trapping him here, eternally awaiting someone to destroy the Anvil of the Void.

He made sure to mention Shale’s participation, how she had “remained at my side throughout,” only to be sent away later. She only kept staring at him, but confessed she did not remember.

“I have sought a way to destroy the Anvil,” Caridin lamented, “alas, I cannot do it myself. No golem can touch it.”

“No!” Branka’s voice interrupted the solemn gloom that hung over us. “The Anvil is mine! No one will take it from me!” she shouted as we turned to face her. Her hair was more wild than before, her eyes so wide I could see the whites clearly from across the expanse of the room. She was mad.

Caridin turned to Shale. “Shale!” he pleaded. “You fought to destroy the Anvil once! Do not allow it to fall into unthinking hands again!”

Shale’s eyes narrowed at him. “You speak of things I cannot remember—you say we fought. Did you use our control rods to command us to do so?” Her voice was guarded like stone, but the cracks were clear.

“I destroyed the rods,” Caridin said. “Perhaps—perhaps my apprentices eventually learned to replace the rods; I do not know. But if so, then all they need is the Anvil to make all the slaves they need!”

Slaves. I could tell it hadn’t quite been thought of in that way. Theron was tense, a bowstring ready to fire, and I saw Darrien flinch at the word. Neria gasped and Daylen struck his staff on the ground. Even the Couslands pulled faces. Shale needed no more convincing; she nodded, and that was that.

Having convinced Shale, Caridin turned to face the rest of us once more. “You,” he said to Anya, “please! Help me destroy the Anvil. Do not let it enslave more souls than it already has!”

Branka was at the back, creeping forward, but she did not interrupt again. She watched us carefully, eyes still unbelievably wide. She looked feral.

I don’t know what Anya’s face looked like, what she was thinking, but I could have cried in relief when I heard her say, “You were a Paragon. I’ll help you if you will support my brother as king.”

(I didn’t. Cry, that is. Miracle of miracles.)

“Don’t listen!” Branka ordered, pointing a hand wildly at Caridin. “He’s been trapped here for a thousand years, stewing in his own madness!” Oh, the irony. I snorted, which earned me a confused and mildly reproachful look from Theron, but no one commented.

“Help me reclaim the Anvil, and you will have an army like you’ve never seen!”

Tempting. Very tempting, for some. I saw Morrigan nod, saw Zevran half-shrug. (He quickly pretended to not have done that when Theron glared at him, but didn’t seem particularly sorry for it.)

“Branka, you mad, bleeding nugtail!” Oghren growled. He was the only one completely facing the madwoman, his back to Caridin. “Does this thing mean so much to you that you can’t even see what you’ve lost to get it?”

Hespith. Laryn. Her entire House.

Branka snarled and paced. “Look around! Is this what our Empire should look like? A crumbling tunnel filled with darkspawn spume?” She gestured behind her. Gods, the irony. Had she already forgotten that she had enabled the darkspawn, had encouraged them? “The Anvil will let us take back our glory!”

I couldn’t stand it. It was wrong, all wrong, so wrong, too wrong! I pushed through to face Branka myself and pointed my staff at her. “Do not speak of glory like it is worth more than the lives yours would require!” I shouted. “The Anvil relies on slavery—slavery, Branka! Do you not hear that word? Do you not recognize that for what it is?”

“It is worth it to restore—”

“It is never worth it!” I interrupted. My breath was ragged. I hadn’t recovered fully from the gas, probably. “Never, do you hear me? I—I would know!” The statement sounded foreign on my tongue, but parts of it rang true: here, I was an elf. Here, elves had a history of being slaves, of being less. Here, that was now my truth. “You would be no better than Tevinter!”

Branka laughed, and started to speak, to argue. Maybe she would have called Tevinter weak. She was interrupted before she began. Anya’s words, fierce in the room, refused to allow room for argument. “The Anvil traps living souls,” she declared, and the very Stone resonated with her voice. “It must be destroyed.

I thought I saw Shale smile. Maybe I was imagining things. It was getting harder to breathe, and oxygen deprivation was linked to hallucinations, right? “So it sides with Caridin,” she said. “Good. That seems right.”

The first thing Shale had called right of her own volition, the first cause she chose. We would stick with her. (Something in me wondered if the results would have differed had Shale not been there, had slavery itself not been brought up as a result of making golems. I dismissed it.)

“Thank you, stranger,” Caridin said, like the weight of a thousand worlds had slid off his steel shoulders. “Your compassion shames me.”

Branka wailed. “No! You will not take it, not while I still live!”

“Branka, don’t throw your life away for this!” Oghren begged.

“The Anvil must be destroyed, Branka.” Anya allowed no argument, even when Oghren tried to convince her to give Branka the Anvil so we could talk sense into her. I panted where I stood, thankful someone else was doing the talking now.

“Bah! You’re not the only master smith here, Caridin.” Branka reached into a pack and pulled out a long, thin rod. “Golems, obey me! Attack!”

As she lifted it into the air, a clamor arose to echo off the cave walls. The golems that stood along the sides moved on Branka’s command, swinging their arms in preparation for battle.

“A control rod!” Caridin fell to his knees, electricity arcing off him in long lines. “My friend, you must help me. I cannot stop her alone!”

Chaos. All battles were chaos. I was starting to hate them. How would I manage in the future? I stumbled back as a golem hurtled a small boulder towards the center of our group, scattering us. Littlefoot whined, then growled and ran for Branka. He was of little use against the golems, and I suspect he knew it. Against a dwarf, though, someone that could bleed?

Smart dog.

I slammed my staff against the ground, more for effect than anything, and a shield sprung up around Littlefoot. Again, and a paralysis glyph appeared in the path of one of Branka’s golems. I saw more paralysis glyphs, and knew Morrigan must be aiding me. She was the only one who seemed to care much for glyphs.

Daylen and Wynne stood against a wall and I rushed to join them. It would be safer for me there, I reasoned. Neria slammed into a golem, staggering it far more than I would have suspected. She was so petite—but that was probably thanks to becoming an Arcane Warrior. Darrien and Castor had engaged a different golem.

Theron had decided to completely forego his bow, slipping out Dar’Misu instead, and using it to shove into whatever weak spots he could find. I froze a golem’s arm before it hit him and he managed to knock it completely off with his trick.

Capella, however, retained her bow. As did Leliana; they focused on Branka. It was hard, I could tell, from what few glances I spared to Branka. Littlefoot and Stellaluna were often too close for a clean shot, and even Capella, as ruthless as she could be, was unwilling to risk shooting her mabari. Plus, Branka was fast, and better with her weapons than a smith had any right to be; she dodged and deflected more of Capella and Leliana’s arrows than any foe yet.

Another boulder smashed not five feet away from me, the sound catching my attention. Pieces of rock were flung everywhere; I heard Daylen grunt, and only narrowly ducked a large stone myself.

Shale grappled with a golem. It was almost comical; despite being of the same make and mostly the same material, Shale was so much smaller. She yelled in the other golem’s face, then dropped and flung it over herself. Laughing, she crushed its head with her foot while it was still stunned.

A whimper and a thud. I whirled to face Branka again just in time to see Littlefoot slide to a stop. He wasn’t moving. “Littlefoot!” I cried. He didn’t respond. “Dammit!”

I had been lax. I had forgotten about Littlefoot. I couldn’t hear anything above my own horror and heartbeat, not the crushing of stone nor the clang of metal. His side was bloody. Someone—Wynne, probably—cast a healing spell, and I saw it clot, but he still did not move.

Sneering, I slammed my staff into the ground once again. It kicked up sparks, which was new and unexpected, since it was made entirely of wood, but I did not stop to question it. I shouted something, something probably incoherent, and aimed my fury at Branka.

Stellaluna barely made it out of the way. A huge fireball, hot enough to be noticeable even in a room lit by lava, scorched its way over the ground and collided with Branka in a bright blaze. She screamed. Oghren yelled. I was still shouting. I didn’t let the fire die until Branka’s screams did.

And I promptly passed the fuck out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so im gonna be at animefest this weekend if any of you are there! i'm running a dmmd panel (DMMD Re:Connect AGAIN?) & shit, so i mean.
> 
> that all said, i have finished writing The Blight. it's 21 full chapters plus a lil epilogue. i've started writing the next part in the series (The Warden-Commander), but between school, work, and the panel prep, i've had p much no time to write hahaha. i'll continue weekly updates at least until i've finished The Blight. but I want to have at least two or three chapters of TWC before i start uploading that. not that it'll change much here for a few weeks but i mean. y'know. keeping you updated & all that bs.


	16. sweet sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there's some elvish in here. translations will be at the bottom with a disclaimer of sorts. just saying. might be a bit long with the notes on the words. i'm a linguist and conlangs excite me. forgive me. or dont.

When I woke up, the group hadn’t exactly moved much. I wasn’t crumpled on the floor, at least. My head ached and it was hard to breathe, but I couldn’t tell how much of that was from the heat of the room and how much was from… other things. I let out a low sound.

Alerted by that, Wynne leaned into my field of vision. I started to sit up but she frowned and put one hand on my shoulder. “No, dear, you must rest. You completely depleted your energy. We’ve decided to camp here, anyway.”

I managed a nod. Littlefoot came up then and snuffled at me. He whined and licked my cheek, making me laugh quietly. Wynne smiled. “He was very upset, I’ll have you know,” she informed me. “I wouldn’t do that to him again.”

“I’m sorry, da’fen,” I said to him, and my voice came out crackly and slurred. Littlefoot sneezed in my face before laying at my side. I figured I was forgiven.

“Vir’era.” I looked up at the voice and saw Theron coming close. He smiled when our eyes met. (His hair looked like fire in the reddish light from the lava below, and I had to blink to convince myself he was not, in fact, on fire.) “Ara dareth… Thank Mythal.” He knelt near my head.

“Ir abelas,” I murmured. “I didn’t mean to worry you.” I was still tired. Fatigue hugged my bones, weighing them down as surely as any chains.

Theron just shook his head a bit, a small smile on his face. “Don’t do it again?” he asked.

I returned the smile as well as I could. “Tel’dirthavara.”

I slipped into unconsciousness again.

 

Heading back to Orzammar was quicker than heading to the Anvil of the Void. For one, we knew exactly where we needed to go, instead of spending time wandering around to find clues. For another, we already knew what tunnels were open and which ones had caved in, so we didn’t lose time backtracking to find a different way through.

Plus, apparently whatever darkspawn had been hanging around were completely uninterested in staying, now that the Archdemon was actively leading a force to march through Ferelden. Not fighting every few hours definitely helped move the schedule along quite nicely. It may have taken about a week (if the dwarves’ internal clocks were right) to get to the Anvil, but it was taking less than half that to return.

Of course, as soon as we reached Caridin’s Cross, Shale asked if we could search for Cadash Thaig. She knew where it was, and we were so close… It may not have been the wisest thing we’ve ever done, but we split up. The logic went that we didn’t have enough food to take everyone trooping to the Cadash Thaig and then on to Orzammar, but that wasn’t the entire reasoning.

I would have, in different circumstances, loved to see the Cadash Thaig. All the abandoned thaigs were so interesting, so full of culture and lost things, how could one not have at least a passing interest? But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make myself.

Every night, I had to work to convince myself that the roof would not cave in as we slept. I had trouble breathing in areas where the lava was closer and the heat made the air heavy and thick. Before we reached Caridin’s Cross, we were ambushed by a group of giant spiders, and I was unable to stop myself from crying for an hour afterwards.

I was not made for the Deep Roads, and everyone could see it. Theron refused to even entertain the idea of continuing to Cadash Thaig, insisting we needed to reach Orzammar with as much speed as possible to “crown a damned king and refocus on the Blight,” but even Oghren could tell it was at least half excuse to get me out of there.

Not that anyone complained. The Couslands, completely unaffected by the Deep Roads (did anything affect them?), volunteered to go with Shale, as did Wynne. Neria and Sten joined them after some discussion, but the rest of us were to go directly to Orzammar and the Chamber of the Assembly.

We took only what food we would need, letting the group headed for the thaig keep the rest. “Just in case,” Alistair said. “Don’t want you to go hungry or anything. Plus, I don’t really like this bread, anyway.”

Capella just laughed at him and gave him a kiss goodbye, promising she’d be safe. “Worrywart,” she teased, and he pretended to be offended.

Morrigan met my eyes and made exaggerated gagging motions. My laugh disturbed the moment, making Alistair blush even as Capella smirked and winked. With that (and a more discreet, but no less romantic parting kiss between Neria and Leliana), we were finally actually leaving the Deep Roads.

Theron didn’t leave my side for the rest of the journey back. Between him and Littlefoot, I felt mostly safe, even if the hotter areas closer to lava still made it hard to breathe. (To be honest, I wasn’t sure if it was actually the heat which made it so hard to breathe, or the closeness of the lava itself.)

We managed to get out in record time, at least. Or close enough that I didn’t particularly care if it was a record. The sounds of people bustling about, the diminishing feeling of darkspawn, and the better lighting in Orzammar’s vast cavern were never so welcome.

We didn’t stop to rest. I think my anxiety had started to rub off on everyone else, and they were jumpy. Morrigan snarked more than usual, Faren said even less, and Anya didn’t smile, for a start. Everyone just wanted this to be done.

So, tired from a day’s walk and dirty from a week and a half without bathing, we trooped through the Diamond Quarter and into the Chamber of the Assembly. No one stopped us—in fact, people moved out of our way quite quickly. Whether it was because we were recognized as Grey Wardens returning from a mission or because we reeked so bad, I’m not sure.

Anya shoved the doors to the Assembly open with far more gusto than I expected. They were huge, heavy things, but she still managed to send them clanging open, announcing our entrance without room for argument or ignorance.

A dwarf scurried from behind us to address the Steward. “I apologize for the interruption, Lord Steward,” he said, sending a glance to Anya, “but the Grey Wardens have returned.”

Anya ignored him. Faren nodded briefly, and we gathered in the center of the room to face Lord Harrowmont and Prince Bhelen. Whispering amongst themselves, the gathered lords and deshyrs tracked each of us. Someone said something about ‘the golem.’ They must have noticed we were down a few people.

Bhelen smiled at Anya and gestured grandiosely for the audience. “Well, Warden? What news do you bring?” I wondered why he never addressed Anya as anything other than Warden in public.

“I bring a crown forged by the Paragon Caridin on the Anvil of the Void,” she announced, holding the crown aloft. I hadn’t seen her take it from her bag, but that made little difference.

Stunned gasps met her words, bringing them in with a great flutter of air. Before the murmuring and speculation could begin, Oghren stepped forward to stand by Anya and began to explain what had happened. He looked professional, for once, and his voice contained little of its usual half-slurring. He stood taller, too. It was… odd.

Harrowmont tried to protest, to question the validity of Oghren’s words and our own actions by calling us ‘Bhelen’s hirelings.’ The Steward stopped him and examined the crown. “This crown is of Paragon make and bears House Ortan’s ancient seal,” he said, after a moment, tapping the seal. “Tell us, Wardens: whom did Caridin choose?”

No one.

“He chose Bhelen,” lied Anya. She lied so easily and did not betray a thing. I stared at the ground to be sure my expression would not call her words into question.

“At last!” Bhelen started to move forward, ever eager. “This farce is ended and I can take my rightful place on my father’s throne.”

There was a pause, a great weight hanging in the air, and we stood back so the Steward could take the center of the room. The deshyrs came forth with their maces, striking the ground as Bhelen strode to stand in front of the Steward. He knelt, and was crowned King of Orzammar. The entire ceremony took maybe a minute.

I saw Bhelen meet Anya’s eyes, but I couldn’t see her face. I don’t know what look she gave him or what words she mouthed, but he smiled at her, and it looked almost genuine.

But then he called for Harrowmont’s execution. I hid my face and counted in my mind, ignoring whatever happened around me until I felt Theron start to guide me away. “It’s over,” he said.

I swallowed and lowered my hands. He left his hand on my elbow, a gentle reminder, until we were safely in Bhelen’s office again. Not that I paid mind to what Bhelen said; something about doing well or proving ourselves, surely. Something else about restoring Anya as an Aeducan. Maybe something about Faren?

Littlefoot was as entertained by it all as me, and even sighed once. I had to hold back my laughter at that, but if anyone noticed, nothing was said.

We went back to the rooms that we’d been assigned previously. Bhelen asked about the missing people, having noticed that more than just the golem were gone, and was reassured they were still alive, but had taken a short secondary mission. “We’ll leave for the surface again when they get back,” I heard Anya say. It was the only statement that really caught my attention.

I quietly begged off of the small celebration Bhelen insisted on having. Theron looked like he wanted to follow me, but I half-smiled and said I’d be fine. He gave me a long stare, though when Zevran pulled him away, citing I might want to be alone, he left. Littlefoot didn’t. That was okay by me. He was… well, he was a dog. That was different.

After closing the door to the room Darrien and I were sharing, I let myself drop the façade and the sliver of control I had left. My breath came fast and shallow. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think—my heart beat painfully and the blood drowned any other sound as it pulsed through my body and I could feel it in my ears in my fingertips in my toes in my lips on my ribs I couldn’t escape I could feel people watching I was alone but they were watching always watching they knew I wasn’t right wasn’t what I said I was wasn’t supposed to be here they knew they knew of course they knew how could they not oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh g—

Something long and wet slipped and slid over my face. I gasped, the unexpected feeling bringing me fully back to the present, to the bedroom in Orzammar’s Royal Palace. Littlefoot stared at me and I swear I had never seen him look so sad. I tried to take a deep breath and choked. He whined and licked my face again. I wrapped my arms around him and started to sob.

It’s hard to cry when you can barely breathe. It feels how I imagine drowning might feel. But I couldn’t stop, and I buried my face in Littlefoot’s fur in my shame.

I sat there until the stone beneath my legs became painful. Even then, I only wobbled to a corner. I considered taking a pillow, considered opening the dresser to hide for a little while, but I didn’t want to cause trouble. If Darrien couldn’t find me easily when he got back, or if Theron came to check on me and didn’t see where I was, they would worry. I didn’t want that to happen. It wasn’t worth it.

So I curled up in a corner, pushing myself as tightly into it as I could manage. Littlefoot leaned against me and I wrapped one arm around him. I felt safer with him as a buffer between myself and everything. I sat there for a long time, and slowly felt myself start to relax. I didn’t leave that spot, that position, though. Just let myself calm down there, wedged between my dog and the stone.

The door opened both sooner and later than I expected. I couldn’t decide which, and it didn’t matter. I peeked over Littlefoot’s head. Darrien didn’t notice me, and he frowned as he closed the door. He had something in his hands. A plate. “Vir’era?” he asked the room.

I swallowed and started to open my mouth, but didn’t trust myself to speak, so instead I just raised my hand and waved. Littlefoot snorted, and Darrien stared at us. We must have been quite the sight. I bet my eyes were bright red. He shifted from one foot to the other and avoided meeting my eyes. “Uh, I thought you might be hungry, and the whole thing was really boring, so I… brought some food,” he said lamely.

I tried to smile at him. I don’t know how convincing it was, because he was still not looking at me. “Thanks,” I managed. It was barely more than a whisper, but he heard.

“Mostly I just wanted an excuse to get away,” he admitted, shuffling forward. He put the plate in front of me like an offering, but I wasn’t hungry. I just stared at the foreign food. “…you okay?”

I swallowed. Nodded, frowned. Shrugged. Sighed, then finally shook my head. Now it was me avoiding him.

“Yeah.” He sighed, too, and I heard him move a bit. I glanced up to see him sitting down across the plate, leaning against the wall and staring at the other side of the room. “I understand.”

There was a long moment of quietness. I didn’t move. I don’t know if it was because I was scared to break the silence or because I simply didn’t feel like it. Maybe both. After a while, Darrien pushed the plate closer to me. “You should eat,” he said.

“Not hungry.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He pushed the plate even closer. It was touching my boots now. “Eat.”

He sounded like my grandma used to. I wondered if he’d be offended to know that, and ultimately decided not to say anything. She’d always insisted I eat every meal, even if I wasn’t hungry. Even if I didn’t like the food. I reached out and picked up the fork-like utensil on the plate and slowly pierced a small piece of meat.

Darrien watched me eat a few bites. It took a lot longer than it usually would have, but I didn’t bother trying to go faster and he didn’t insist on it, either. He nodded eventually, satisfied that I wouldn’t just stop eating. I still wasn’t very hungry, but there was something about this food, about the way it was prepared—I didn’t know what it was, but it was comforting. Some kind of creamy side was there, too. It looked like mashed potatoes, but tasted like macaroni and cheese. It was good, whatever it was.

“This is why Theron didn’t want you to stay in the Deep Roads, huh.” It wasn’t really a question, but I nodded. “Is—I mean.” He sighed. “We all kind of—we’ve noticed, I guess, but…” He stopped again. “I didn’t realize it was… I dunno.”

I pushed a vegetable around. I had no idea what it was, and even less idea how to respond to Darrien.  
“Sometimes, at night,” he tried, “we’ve heard him singing to you when you disappear into your tent.” He looked at me again. “It—sounds like a lullaby. Does—does that help?”

I nodded. I also gave up on the vegetable, which wouldn’t get on the fork-thing, and nudged the plate away. I was done. He glanced at it. Most of the food was gone. Other than that impossible vegetable, anyway. He didn’t bother insisting I eat it. “You should probably sleep now,” he said, instead.

I shrugged, but he was right. I felt exhausted. I don’t know if he could tell or if he was just completely guessing, but he pressed the issue nonetheless. “You’ll feel better.”

Once again, he was right. I sighed and gently pushed Littlefoot off me enough that I could stand. Darrien stood, too, and shadowed me as I shuffled to the bed. I shucked my shoes, but didn’t bother to change into the nightclothes we’d been provided. My robes probably smelled terrible. I probably smelled terrible. I’d wash in the morning. Darrien didn’t look like he was about to let me try to take a bath.

After I’d shoved myself under the covers, and after Littlefoot had come to lay more or less on top of me, Darrien turned off the oil lamps. It was dark, and I felt him join me in the bed more than saw him. “I’m not as good at singing,” he said, then, surprising me, “but… there’s an old lullaby my mom used to sing to me.”

I didn’t say a word. I barely breathed, hardly able to believe he was actually offering this. He probably didn’t know just how comforting it was for me, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was offering it, on his own, and apparently just because he’d sometimes heard Theron singing that Dalish lullaby.

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Okay. Here goes, then, I guess. When waked, we walked where willows wail…”

 

I fell asleep easily that night, and managed to join everyone for breakfast the next day. I did convince them to let me stay in my room, though. They were going to wander Orzammar, and I was simply not prepared to go back out just yet. My excuse of writing more in my journal was flimsy, but they allowed it.

Mostly, anyway. Morrigan suggested that I work on my shapeshifting. “One animal form is a fine parlor trick,” she said, “but ‘tis only that: a parlor trick. If you wish to be truly respectable, I recommend a minimum of three.”

I wondered how many she had. I doubted she’d give me a straight answer, though, so I didn’t ask. I just promised that I would and waved her off. She linked her arm with Daylen’s and they sauntered away.

I was getting close to finishing all I knew of the events to occur in Thedas. The journal wasn’t as full as I would have liked, but my memory had never been as good as I’d liked to believe it. Some things I remembered well, but the little quests? I had trouble remembering those. I didn’t even bother trying, mostly. It probably didn’t matter.

Leliana brought me lunch and dramatically claimed to be missing her singing partner. We spent the better part of the afternoon singing—I taught her ‘This Too Shall Pass,’ and she taught me ‘The Wind and Rain.’ I didn’t know how well I’d remember it, but it was fun to sing with her. Of course, this quickly devolved into exchanging anecdotes about everything and anything—mostly on Leliana’s part.

When the rest of our merry band finally made it back to Orzammar almost three days after we had, I was feeling much better. I still couldn’t wait to be on the surface again, and there was a lingering fear that the mountain could cave in at any moment, but… Well, I felt better. Not perfect, and not really even very well-adjusted, but better. I rather figured it was the best I could ask for.

We left as soon as everyone was rested and bathed. Bhelen so very generously sent food with us. (I wasn’t sure how much it was because he felt it was the right thing to do and how much was to prove his new dedication to defeating the Blight by backing the Grey Wardens.) It was plenty for us to get back to Redcliffe.

Eamon wasted no time. As soon as we said we had gathered our troops, he called for the Landsmeet. We had a grand total of two days in Redcliffe while the news was spread and preparations were made; hardly any time at all, really. It was enough, though, to finally retrieve Sten’s sword. I didn’t join that endeavor, but heard afterwards that it was really very easy.

A messenger came to the castle one day with a letter for me—from Mia Rutherford. I accepted it with more ease than I felt. I hadn’t expected her to continue writing to me. But… well, I wasn’t about to say no. It might be nice. I opened the letter soon, and it read as such:

_Warden Vir’era Sabrae:_

_Don’t you worry about me. I’ll have you know I can take care of myself, Grey Warden or not. Besides, I’m hardly going out looking for trouble—not like you lot. I reckon I’m about as safe as I can be. The rest of Honnleath seems to like you, anyhow. Apparently, even though you took away little Kerah’s favorite statue, you’re also to thank for saving Amalia from a demon, and Matthias isn’t about to let us forget it._

_Aren’t you supposed to be fighting darkspawn or something? I don’t see how you’d have time to be doing any Grey Warden-ing what with all this saving-people. Though I guess you did run the darkspawn out of Honnleath, at least for a while. So thanks for that, too._

_You take care of yourself. Listen to your own damn advice, got it? I don’t know why it is Grey Wardens are supposed to be the only ones that can end a Blight, but I also never heard of someone else doing it, and I’m pretty sure our current regent would first run Ferelden into the ground before accepting help from anyone, Warden or not, from Orlais. So we need you to not die._

_Write back._

_Mia Rutherford, 9:30 Dragon_

I laughed. How old would she be now? I knew she was at least meant to be older than Cullen, but that didn’t tell me much. I wasn’t even sure how old Cullen was. My best guess put her in her mid-twenties—which meant she likely wouldn’t forget that I was supposed to write her back. Dutifully, I picked up a clean piece of paper and the funny brush-pen.

_Dear Mia Rutherford,_

_I’m writing back. I’m probably late on this, but that’s hardly surprising. Let me reassure you that the other Wardens and I are indeed preparing for the Blight. We spent the last couple weeks in Orzammar, securing the dwarves’ aid. (Don’t tell anyone, but I rather hope I don’t have to see the Deep Roads for so long ever again. Warden I may be, but the forest is my home.)_

_I’m sorry to have deprived Kerah of a favored statue, but Shale isn’t really just a statue. She’s a golem, and it was a bit cruel to have her just frozen there for so long. She’s been a great help. I doubt she’d actually say hello, but if it would make Kerah feel better, I see no harm in telling a child a white lie._

_Is Amalia well? Being in the thrall of a demon is an ordeal even for adults. Many do not survive. We were lucky to have been able to save her._

_I will be in Denerim for a time, at Arl Eamon’s estate there. Please send any further letters there, or I do not know when I’ll receive them._

_Vir’era Sabrae, 9:30 Dragon_

_PS: If you have not heard yet, there will be a Landsmeet. We are campaigning to put our fellow, Alistair, on the throne, as he is the last remaining child of King Maric Theirin. I also believe he would be a good king, but Arl Eamon insists that it is the Theirin blood which is important._

I wasn’t sure that it was the best idea to tell her all this in a letter (letters could be intercepted), but it wasn’t a secret. Soon, everyone would know, I was sure. So, trusting there was no harm in it, I sealed the letter with wax from a nearby candle. The next morning, I gave it and a few silver to a courier, and then we left.

We took carriages and horses to Denerim—the first time I’d traveled by anything other than foot since arriving in Thedas. It wasn’t as comfortable as I’d hoped.

 

We had barely started to situate ourselves when Loghain paid us a visit. Eamon had just finished warning us that we would need all the support we could muster. It was like Loghain had been waiting for the most opportune moment, the moment that would most emphasize the imposing figure he made as our opposition.

If there was one thing that worked in our benefit, it was our numbers. Loghain glowered at us even as he expressed his shock that so many Wardens had managed to abandon Ostagar. Alistair started forward and Darrien’s hands clenched, but neither spoke. I thought Capella was to thank for this, but when I glanced over, it was Anya who had put an arm in front of them.

Capella was still as a statue, no emotion betrayed. It looked like she wasn’t even breathing. I followed her gaze to Howe, standing next to Loghain with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. To my surprise, Castor had similarly guarded his expression. I had grown so accustomed to his face being readable compared to his sister’s, but now… They were equally still. Only a slight furrowing of his brow belied the anger that must be simmering below the surface.

Loghain engaged Eamon in a battle of faux pleasantries. Theron interrupted exactly once, a snarling sarcastic statement startling the two men, but Ser Cauthrien would have none of it. “Quiet!” she ordered him. “Your betters are talking!”

Oh, but that was the wrong thing to say—Theron and Darrien both reached for weapons that were not present even as Loghain chided the woman. Their presence did not last much longer, and they sauntered out as smartly as they’d arrived.

“I did not expect Loghain to show himself so soon,” Eamon said once the doors had shut behind them.

“The next time I see Howe…” Castor growled, but recomposed himself swiftly. Darrien glanced at him.

Eamon shook his head. “Our main concern should be the Landsmeet itself. When you are ready, come to my office. We shall discuss plans there.”

We all glanced at each other as he walked away. “I’d say I’m ready,” Darrien said, “but I kind of want to eat first.”

Castor laughed and wrapped an arm around Darrien’s shoulders. “A good plan,” he declared. “I’m sure lunch is just about ready, anyways.” He winked, and Darrien blushed. “Let’s eat!”

Oghren was more than happy with this decision, letting us know loudly and delightedly. We filed into the dining area and Alistair went to ask the cook. He came back looking sheepish, but nodded as he sat down. “She said it’ll be right out. Also a few insults about how impatient I am.” He glanced around and pouted. “They’ve changed the dining room.”

“It looks very nice,” Neria said. She seemed almost hesitant to touch the fine tablecloth.

“Yeah,” Alistair agreed with a sigh. “It’s just weird. I haven’t been here in a while, so I suppose it makes sense, though.” He smiled at the cook as she set food on the table, and she just shook her head at him.

“You lot let me know if there’s anything else you’ll be needing,” she said. “Arl Eamon’s said you’re to have whatever you need, within reason.”

“Thank you.” There were murmured thanks following Alistair’s from all around the table. The only people who seemed fully comfortable were those who had been born in noble families—well, and Oghren, but I think that was more because he specifically never felt uncomfortable other than those first couple days on the surface.

“So, should we divide and conquer?” Alistair asked.

“That would probably be best,” Capella said. She nodded to the dwarves. “Anya, Oghren, Faren, as you’re less familiar with Denerim, it may be best for you to start with checking the marketplace. It’s just outside the estate. There’s a tavern nobles frequent nearby, too. Alistair, it’d be best if you showed your face there. Castor and I will go with. Our family may have old allies there.”

“I’d… I’d like to visit the Alienage, if we can,” Darrien said. Capella took large bite and Castor answered, instead.

“I don’t see why not.” Darrien smiled at him, a little glimpse of a thing, before he frowned down at his food once again.

Leliana offered to check the Chantry and the Chanter’s board once again, and soon we had divided the perceived various tasks fairly evenly. There were quite a few who would just wander around and get a feel for how the city, including Daylen and Morrigan. Mostly, though, we wanted to maintain a low profile while promoting Alistair. He still seemed a bit hesitant to take the throne, but at the same time…

Well, it seemed he thought he may as well. Chatter surrounded me as we ate.

The food was delicious, and I saw Darrien make a point of saying as much to the cook when we had finished. She sniffed, as if to say that of course it was, but I saw her smile anyway.

By the time we got to Eamon’s office, he was trying to calm down a worried woman in servants’ clothes. An elf, I noticed, and by all logic… This was Erlina. “Wardens,” Eamon said, facing us, and then gesturing to the elf. “This is Erlina, handmaiden to Anora. She has some… news.”

“Anora would ask for your help, Grey Wardens,” Erlina interrupted. Eamon raised his eyebrows bemusedly, but allowed her to continue. “She is being held captive in Howe’s estate! Please, you must help her!”

Her Orlesian accent was thick, but not particularly difficult to decipher. Capella narrowed her eyes at the woman and started asking questions—why should we trust her, wasn’t Anora our opponent for Alistair’s claim, this sounds like a trap. But Erlina was insistent and all but begged us to help Anora, and I knew we could do nothing else. I didn’t need to speak up, though, because Anya did it for me.

“I don’t think we have much to lose,” she said. “Regardless of Anora’s intentions, either nothing will come of this or we will have her in our debt.”

Capella hummed, and Erlina stared her down. For her height, she managed to be quite intimidating, though I doubt that’s what influenced Capella’s decision. Theron agreed with Anya, prompting Castor to nod, and so Capella gave in. “We’ll help you.”

“Good!” she said. “I have some uniforms which you can wear. Arl Howe, he is hiring so many new guards that it will not be noticed. But there are too many of you. I have only four.”

Capella nodded. “We’ll send four people to meet you at Howe’s estate, then. You’ll know them when you see them.”

Erlina narrowed her eyes, but nodded and left. Castor raised his eyebrows at Capella, and she smiled. “Four people, but we don’t want to be suspicious. So Sten and Shale both stay. The elves may be too short—sorry, but someone like Howe would definitely only hire humans.”

Theron shrugged. “That is his loss.”

“Indeed.” She smirked and glanced around. “Castor and I will go and bring our mabari. Daylen, do you think you could wear guard armor for a short while?”

He shrugged. “Probably,” he said. “It’ll be harder to cast, though.”

Capella waved the concern away. “If all goes well, we won’t need to. I would just rather be prepared.” She looked at Littlefoot. “Littlefoot, would you be willing to accompany us?”

If it were anyone else but the Couslands, I think they’d have asked me to send Littlefoot along. But Capella knew just how smart the mabari were, how self-aware. Littlefoot looked up at me. “I think it’s a good idea,” I said, and then he sneezed. He walked to Capella and licked her hand, though.

“Thank you,” she murmured, petting his head. “Just one more human, then…”

“Though I hate to sound eager,” Morrigan said, “I volunteer myself. They would hardly expect one mage, let alone two. We may be able to surprise them, and ‘twould be to our advantage, I should think.”

Capella smiled slowly at the witch. “I like the way you think.” Morrigan flipped her hair at the compliment, but smirked all the same, obviously pleased.

Alistair started to protest. “Capella, are you sure? Maybe I should go.”

“No.” Capella pointed one pale finger accusingly at him. “You are going to go to the Gnawed Noble. You will stay out of any trouble, because you are the one we are trying to put on the throne, and we can’t have you getting hurt.” He tried to protest, but her glare shut him up, and he just mumbled a ‘yes ma’am.’

Castor snickered, earning a half-hearted glare from Alistair. Morrigan also seemed far too pleased with the situation, but she had the sense to keep it a quiet victory. Too bad I didn’t have the sense to walk away, because when her dragon-gold eyes settled on me once more, she tilted her head. “Vir’era. Have you mastered taking the mabari form yet?”

I swallowed. “Um… no?”

“Try. Now.”

“What?” I stared, eyes wide as can be.

“If you can take the form of a mabari,” Morrigan pointed out, “we would have yet another advantage. An extra fighter, at least, would be a great boon if this is the trap it seems to be, and who would suspect a mutt to be a mage?” Her purple lips curled up. I didn’t have a proper argument.

Capella laid a hand on my arm. “If you can’t manage, then don’t worry. We should be fine. But if you could… Morrigan’s right. I’d rather you tried.”

“If he doesn’t want to—” Theron started, but I stopped him.

“Okay, I’ll try.” He turned to me, dark blue eyes making sure I was certain in my decision. I nodded, and, with a deep sigh, he backed down.

The truth was, despite Morrigan’s occasional instructions, I hadn’t actually tried to become anything other than a cat since I first managed to shapeshift. I hadn’t really wanted to. It was a silly reason, really. I was aware that having more forms was ideal for a variety of reasons, but I just… hadn’t.

And with everyone watching me, the pressure was intense. It felt like I was being asked to present a subject to the class that I had only studied peripherally, and I swallowed as I closed my eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note on my usage of elvish: a good portion of what i've used here is not used in canon. at least, not in the way i've used it. i've constructed the sentences and phrases from my own understanding of the conlang, the translations i've found online for various words and phrases, and my own knowledge of linguistics. i'm not claiming they're 100% Definitely How It'd Be Said, but i like to think it's a damn good guess. minor explanations bc i'm a dork.
> 
> _da'fen_ \-- little wolf (self-explanatory, really; da- being a diminutive prefix and fen being wolf)  
>  _Ara dareth_ \-- you're safe (i found no verb for 'to be' so i simply combined 'you' and 'safe')  
>  _ir abelas_ \-- i'm sorry (indirect translation; 'ir abelas' serves the same purpose as 'i'm sorry' in this context, at least)  
>  _Tel'dirthavara_ \-- don't promise/no promise (dirthavaren being promise, extrapolated to dirthavara being verb for 'to promise' and tel used as a negation; intended here that vir'era is not promising anything to theron)
> 
> [[in other news i just finished trespasser dlc like literally thirty minutes ago and i'm still reeling and i don't know what this will mean for how i write the story, but in all likelihood... i will not be including it in what vir'era is aware of, though i may very well attempt to include it in my writings in other ways. suggestions are welcome. as are thoughts on WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED, LIKE SERIOUSLY, I WON'T SAY ANYTHING BECAUSE SPOILERS, BUT WOW. JUST WOW.


	17. Chapter 17

I succeeded. That is, I became a mabari. I wasn’t sure whether I was happy with this or not—on the one hand, I was delighted to have managed a transformation with so many people watching me. On the other, I hadn’t really wanted to go rescue Anora. But, well… I cocked my head to the side and watched Capella. She smiled and clapped briefly. “Brilliant,” she complimented. I panted up at her.

“I suggest we go, then,” Morrigan said, examining her fingernails. “’Twould not do to keep our… informant waiting, now, would it?”

“You’re right.” Capella nodded and looked around the group. “We’ll be back soon, hopefully. If we’re not…” She glanced at the ceiling. “Maker help us.”

I blinked. Had I still been hu—an elf, I may have gasped. Fort Drakon! I started to shift back, to tell them what I knew, but Morrigan glared at me. “Do not,” she ordered, and I stopped. “We will manage.”

Capella’s blue-and-green eyes flitted between the two of us. “Damn. It is a trap, then.”

I shook my head, which felt entirely unnatural.

“No?” she asked. “But we will be caught.”

I tried to nod, and ended up sneezing. She seemed to understand, though, because she nodded and tapped her cheek. “Well, we’ll be prepared, then. Will you warn us?” She started to pull her hair back, producing a hair tie from seemingly nowhere as she talked.

I sneezed again, and that was enough for her. Castor had also taken out a hair tie and was deftly plaiting his own hair. Littlefoot came over and licked my face, his tongue sliding over my fur very differently from how it slid over skin. He seemed confused at the idea that I had the same basic form as him, but was excited that he wouldn’t have to leave me behind. Capella kissed Alistair goodbye, and we trooped to Howe’s estate.

No one bothered us on the way. I wasn’t sure whether they simply did not recognize us (or, at least, the humans) or if they had decided they didn’t care about our presence. Given how identifiable the Couslands’ bright crayon-red hair was, I figured it was more of the second than the first.

Erlina nodded in approval as we arrived. “I did not know you had so many mabari,” she said, looking closely at the dogs and me. “But Howe has many of his own. This is good.” Then she gestured at the crowd at the front of the estate. “We will need to go to the side entrance,” she said. “It is around back. This way.”

Quietly, as quietly as we could, we followed her. I couldn’t stop my new dog-nails from tapping on the stones that made the path, though. Guards were on us very soon. “Try to just knock them out,” Capella said before tossing a smoke bomb between us and the guards. The dogs and I charged through. Castor was on our heels, but where we met them head-on, he moved to flank them.

A glyph of paralysis caught one guard, and I bowled into him. He fell easily, and I winced a bit when I heard his head hit the back of his helmet heavily. Beside me, Littlefoot knocked down a different guard, but he was still awake and moving, so I joined the effort. Stellaluna somehow disarmed an archer, and Castor used the distraction to send her into unconsciousness.

Dracula faced off the last guard. She stared at the dog, and he stared back; both were surprised when a weakened electric shock hit her. She convulsed briefly, as though she were under the effects of a taser, and collapsed.

“Hurry!” Erlina insisted, then. I caught Morrigan rolling her eyes even as she obeyed.

We turned a corner and crouched in the garden to peer around at the guards who blocked our path to the door. “I can distract them,” Erlina said. “But you will need to hide in the bushes while I do it.”

“First we need those disguises,” Capella replied, raising one eyebrow when Erlina huffed.

“Yes, fine! But hurry! My lady does not have much time…” She pulled four guard uniforms from a corner. It took Castor and Capella barely a minute to strap themselves into the armor, having not bothered to wear armor in anticipation of the disguises. When finished, they helped Daylen and Morrigan, who were considerably less familiar with the methods. Erlina all but tapped her foot as she waited.

“You are ready now?” she asked, eyes narrowed. Capella nodded, and we hid behind a short wall as the elf ran to the guards with a hysterical claim of darkspawn.

We slipped into the estate quickly and waited in the small entryway for Erlina to tell us where Anora was. I considered simply leading them through to find her, but I wasn’t sure that the estate’s layout would be the same as I remembered it (Redcliffe certainly had more bedrooms, for one). About five minutes later, Erlina finally rejoined us.

“Took me forever to lose those guards,” she muttered, glaring at the door as if she could still see them through it. She pursed her lips and assessed us. “The servants, they will not pay attention to you. All guards are alike to a cook, no? But you must still be careful. The guards may realize that you are not one of them.”

Capella nodded. “Where is Anora, then?”

“Down the hall.” Erlina motioned with her hands. “She is in the first bedroom. I will meet you there.”

And then she was gone. We waited another minute before heading out ourselves. By unspoken agreement, Littlefoot stood close to Daylen and I stayed at Morrigan’s side. It was unlikely someone would look too close at us, but at least this way the mabari seemed “under control.” I wondered if this is what it felt like to be a pit bull back home.

Servants stood to the side as we passed, heads down. Other guards either ignored us or half-nodded. Daylen walked stiffly in the armor, and it seemed painfully obvious that he did not know how to move in it, but no one called him out on this. Even Morrigan seemed more comfortable.

Predictably, Anora’s door was sealed with an additional layer of magic. Morrigan tried to undo the spell, but had no luck. She cursed quietly, and Anora informed us that the mage responsible would be with Howe, who was likely in his rooms. Or the dungeons. Erlina shooed us along, as though we’d simply leave now, pointing at the far end of the hall. “Hurry!”

The hallway was surprisingly empty. Though normally we may have examined the other rooms, we refrained this time in the interest of maintaining cover. Still, when Howe’s room proved as empty as predicted, I pawed at the small lockbox near his bed. If I was right… the Grey Warden papers should be in there. They were important for something. I couldn’t quite remember what, but I was sure of it.

Capella raised an eyebrow at me, but opened it and rifled through. After a moment’s consideration, she took the gold, the papers, and a few small jewels. She held them up for the others’ approval, and got a trio of smirks in response.

We crept out of the room and down to the upper level of dungeons. A guard spotted us, and started to come to confront. A hand darted forward from the single cell he’d been guarding and choked him before he could; we stared in half-shocked silence. Soon enough, a middle-aged human man came out of the cell, wearing clothes he must have stolen from the dead guard.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling at us. His brown hair was in disarray and there were small streaks of dirt on his face. “I was starting to think I would never get that chance.” He peered closer, and before anyone could speak, he clapped his hands together, pointing at the three Wardens. “I recognize you! Yes, you must be three of Duncan’s recruits—you match his descriptions.”

I wondered just how detailed these descriptions had been.

“Who are you?” Capella asked. She was tense, one hand holding tight to Stellaluna’s collar, but had not taken out her bow or drawn her dagger.

The man shook his head. “My apologies, Wardens. I am Riordan, a Grey Warden from Jader, in Orlais.” Capella relaxed, letting go of Stellaluna’s collar with a pat.

“Did others come with you?” She glanced behind him, but no one else came out of the cell. No one would; Riordan was alone, and he said as much. He did seem properly regretful about it, at least, but cited that he and the other Orlesian Wardens did not wish to start another war when it was the Blight which demanded attention.

I wondered how much he knew of the current civil war in Ferelden. It sounded like commentary to me, but perhaps it wasn’t. He frowned and asked, “There were two dwarves which Duncan had sent to Orlais. I met them, but I do not see them with you…”

“The others are at Arl Eamon’s estate,” Castor answered smoothly. “We’re here for… other reasons.”

Riordan nodded and didn’t ask why we were there. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Maybe he suspected. It didn’t matter. “I will go there, then,” he said. “There is much that should be done to prepare.”

Capella watched him as he started to leave, but did not protest and did not stop him. Morrigan seemed like she wanted to say something, but she followed Capella’s lead. Daylen crossed his arms as we waited. Once Riordan had left, we started forward again.

The guard at the bottom of the stairs asked who we were, and while I expected Capella to try her honey-sweet persuasion, I was surprised. “My name is Capella Cousland,” she said, and her face and voice were both as blank as paper. “I’m here for Howe.”

The guard laughed. “Howe said nobody’s allowed down here, and if someone comes, we get to do whatever we want to ‘em. Boys! Looks like we got our first playthings.”

He was answered with an arrow through his eye. Capella was sparing no time, it seemed, and he hadn’t been deemed worthy of saving. I couldn’t bring myself to disagree. His words had been more than mildly disconcerting, and I felt no remorse when his body hit the floor. “Traps!” Capella called, and leaned down to deactivate them. Morrigan provided cover fire, a chain of lightning catching four guards.

Castor, Dracula, and Stellaluna ran down the other side where a short line of archers were getting into position. I lost sight of them quickly; Capella finished with the traps and I joined Littlefoot with a frontal attack on the guards there. A sword caught my shoulder, and I yelped in pain, but when I turned, it was already half-healed. Daylen, right.

Littlefoot clamped his jaws around the wrist of my attacker and I leapt over him to knock down a guard aiming for my mabari. He managed to swat me to the side, but I saw him fall regardless, triggering his own trap in a small explosion of fire. He shouted, and I scrambled away. Behind me, the guard Littlefoot had shouted, “Damn dogs!”

I saw him draw a dagger. Thinking fast, I shoved myself back upright and threw my weight against him. He didn’t drop the dagger, but his swing at Littlefoot did miss, and that was enough. Littlefoot and I shot out of the way, and Morrigan froze the guard with Winter’s Grasp. Soon, all the guards were down or dead.

We crept through, trying not to draw attention to ourselves, but were generally unsuccessful. It was hard to tell what room Howe was in without checking, after all. At least two good things came of it, though: we killed the torturers who held Oswyn captive, which prompted him to promise his father’s support of the Grey Wardens, and we found and released Soris, Rexel, and Irminric. (Irminric gave us his ring to give to his sister, Bann Alfstanna.)

At last, we opened the door that had Howe standing behind it.

He started to speak, to mock us, but Capella would have none of it. She shot an arrow through his foot. “My name,” she declared, “is Capella Cousland. You killed my family. Now I will kill you.”

Castor slipped around her and slit the throat of a mage before she had recovered from the initial shock. The other mage rendered a shield around himself and Howe, and the battle began in earnest.

Arrows flew over my head as I charged forward with the mabari, and a few spells followed their trail. The guard in front of me was frozen when I reached him, and I toppled him to the floor, shattering him. The mage that was still standing added ice to the guards’ weapons, and Daylen countered by lighting Capella and Castor’s aflame. Turning to face down the mage despite his shield, I saw Stellaluna and Dracula double-teaming the largest of the guards.

A swing of the man’s equally-large weapon hit Stellaluna in the side, distracting me long enough for the mage to cast an immobilizing spell on me. At least, caught in the spell as I was, a glittering gold shield would keep weapons off me, even if I couldn’t attack.

Howe yelled something that I couldn’t make out. One of Capella’s arrows seared past my shield and caught the guard that had hit Stellaluna in the shoulder, worming impossibly between the plates of his armor. He shouted but ignored the injury. A burst of lightning hit him and forked off to the other guards. It fizzled out on the mage’s shield, leaving him and Howe safe from it, at least for now.

Before the large guard could recover, Dracula had his neck clamped firmly between jaws strong enough to break bones. He was dead in seconds. I fell, released almost simultaneously from the imprisoning spell, and looked around to get my bearings. Three of six guards were dead, one of two mages, but the four still standing weren’t about to back down, and Howe’s foot must have been healed, because he was charging Capella without a limp and without profuse bleeding.

Stellaluna flanked and tackled him before he could reach her master—though the shield from the mage held and her claws didn’t catch Howe, it was enough to send him off course. Castor slit the throat of another guard, and she fell with little ceremony. I turned to the mage again and saw Littlefoot stalking to him from behind.

With a growl, I charged the mage. Littlefoot mirrored me. His shield couldn’t hold forever, I reasoned. Littlefoot reached him first, and the surprise of being attacked from behind brought him to the floor. It didn’t break the shield, though. He was a strong mage. Metal clanged against metal in the background. I snapped at the mage’s face. He looked properly frightened, but didn’t back down, didn’t drop his shield.

Something—no, someone collapsed with a grunt. It didn’t sound like Castor or the others, so I didn’t dare look. Whatever advantage Howe may have had was disappearing like smoke. I heard another grunt. Someone else down, meaning it was just Howe and this damned mage.

Stellaluna and Dracula joined the relentless attack, and I soon smelled blood. When I looked for the source, I could have laughed—but I was a dog, so I didn’t. The shield crumbled, and from the cry behind me, I gathered that Howe’s shield was gone, too. I backed from the mage as Littlefoot tore his throat open, turning instead to watch Howe.

Castor had him in a headlock, one dagger buried in Howe’s side and another against his throat. “My name is Castor Cousland,” he murmured, and despite the blood on his hands, despite the glint in his eyes, his voice was perfectly even, perfectly controlled. “You killed my family.”

Howe spit. Capella stalked forward. Some of her hair had slid out of the ponytail, and she looked more wild than I had ever seen her, more wild than she had looked even in the midst of battle with werewolves. The loose strands of hair floated around her like a halo of blood.

Howe spit again. It was reddish. He would be dead soon enough. “I deserved more,” he snarled.

Capella drew a small, beautiful silver blade. “We are the Couslands. You killed our family. Prepare to die.”

She sheathed her blade in his heart.

Castor let go of the man, and he slid off the blade. When he hit the ground, a glare still in his eyes, she crushed his throat beneath her foot. He was finished. She examined her little weapon, watching the blood drip from its smooth surface. “I have been waiting for that moment,” she said.

Castor ripped his dagger from the side of Howe’s corpse. Blood oozed forth, slow and languid, and he made a face when it touched his borrowed boots. “I hope Erlina doesn’t mind if I burn these.”

“As much as I hate to interrupt such a touching moment,” Morrigan said, then, “I do believe we had a mission?”

Capella let out a huff of laughter, but nodded as she wiped her blade on a piece of cloth ripped from Howe. “Yes, we do. Castor?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go save the queen, or whatever.” He took the cloth she offered, wiping his own blade quickly, and we headed back out of the dungeons the way we came.

I didn’t transform back, though I suppose I could have. Our cover was doubtlessly blown by now, but I didn’t think it would be wise to tempt fate. Plus, I didn’t know what Capella planned on doing about Ser Cauthrien.

Anora, even in a guard’s uniform, walked like a queen. I didn’t know how she ever convinced anyone otherwise, but that was of little consequence now. She seemed amused at being rescued with the aid of so many mabari, if the raised eyebrows and smile she sent at us were any indication.

Capella nodded and we walked, weapons all sheathed, to the main entrance. Ser Cauthrien was waiting for us. “For the murder of Arl Howe and his men,” she declared, “I am placing the Grey Wardens under arrest! You may surrender to us now, or we will have to take you by force.”

Daylen began to cast, but Capella held up a hand. “If I surrender,” she said, slowly, “will you allow our friends and dogs to return to Arl Eamon without consequence?”

Ser Cauthrien crossed her arms. “I will need all three of the Wardens, but I see no reason why not.”

Capella turned to nod at Castor, who nodded back, and then only Daylen seemed unwilling. But a glance at Morrigan, who inclined her head, seemed to convince him. “I surrender,” he said.

“As do we.” Capella, Castor, and Daylen walked calmly forward, and were escorted away by Ser Cauthrien and her guards.

Morrigan gave a considering look to the queen, who had said nothing, and then we left the estate. She paused long enough to divest herself of the guard’s armor, hiding it behind a bush at Erlina’s suggestion. I looked around us, and discovering no one who would cause a scene, I transformed back to an elf.

“Maker!” Anora exclaimed, staring at me. I felt a little bad for surprising her, but Morrigan just snorted.

“It was just magic, your majesty,” the witch said, sarcasm dripping from her words.

I dipped my head. “I didn’t mean to shock you.”

She shook her head. “Yes, well, I can see why you did not change back before. Now, if you don’t mind, I would rather not stand around in the open, lest my father or his men see me.” Without waiting for a response, she strode off at a faster rate than I’d’ve expected, headed directly for Arl Eamon’s estate.

Littlefoot sneezed at me and Stellaluna wiped her face with a paw. “We should follow the esteemed queen,” Morrigan said, but made no move to do so.

I held back a snicker and started walking.

 

When we arrived, Anora was already explaining to Arl Eamon what had happened. Alistair seemed understandably upset, and Darrien was pacing. Theron quickly checked me over to be certain that I was well, obviously pleased that I had not been captured as well. Zevran ruffled my hair, though what possessed him to do that escaped me.

“We have to send someone!” Alistair demanded. “I’ll go. I’m sure they’re at Fort Drakon.”

“I’ll go, too,” Darrien said, crossing his arms and jaw jutting out stubbornly.

Eamon sighed at them. “I agree that we cannot leave them there, but—”

“You don’t have to know who’s gone or when,” Alistair insisted. Anora raised an eyebrow at him. “Just. I don’t know, look at the wall for five minutes or something.” The eyebrow went back down.

“Alistair, that isn’t—”

“You can’t really think I’m going to let Capella just rot there!”

“And Castor,” Darrien added.

“Right,” Alistair amended, “him too. And Daylen.” Morrigan nodded at the inclusion of the mage.

“No, I didn’t expect so,” Eamon said. “Now, may I speak?”

Blushing, Alistair nodded and took a half-step back. Eamon shook his head, but he was smiling. “Thank you, Alistair. What I want to know is how you intend on retrieving your friends.”

Alistair opened his mouth, frowned, and shut it again. Darrien shrugged. “I figured we’d sneak in and take it from there. Plus, if I know the Couslands… they’re not just going to sit still.”

This made Alistair laugh. “Yeah, they’ll probably work on breaking themselves out as soon as they’re left alone for more than a minute.”

Eamon considered the task. “I suggest bringing their mabari and anyone else who wishes to go with you, but no more than four people.”

“Fair enough,” Darrien said. “Anyone else actually want to go?” Morrigan stepped forward immediately. After a moment’s consideration, Theron volunteered as well. The group was gone not an hour later, having been bid by Eamon to further establish a plan of action.

I retreated to my room, tired from maintaining a new transformation and fighting in it. At least I had two forms now, though. That had to be good. Plus, one would actually be useful for fighting. (Not that cats weren’t useful for other things. Or even some fighting. Just that a mabari was… more useful.)

 

In the time that it took for Capella, Castor, and Daylen to be rescued, I napped. I hadn’t planned on it, but when I got to the room, the bed simply looked so inviting… I was woken up by Littlefoot, who excitedly led me to Arl Eamon’s office. With everyone back, a meeting was being called to order. It was a tight fit, even with the large office. Our friends and companions, dogs included, totaled twenty bodies, and then there was the arl himself, Anora, Erlina, and Riordan. No office was really made to hold twenty-four.

It was getting late, though, so as soon as the basics were over with (welcoming Anora properly, introducing her to all the Wardens, giving her a room), Eamon decided the rest could be discussed over dinner. The cook frowned and gaped at the late addition of someone as important as the queen, but didn’t dare voice an opinion either way.

Anora explained the situation to the best of her ability as we ate. She apologized, apparently sincere, for the capture of three Wardens, however briefly, and Capella graciously accepted the words. “We are more concerned with your father’s motives. To allow your semi-imprisonment… I’m beginning to think he cannot be reasoned with.”

Anora sighed and looked down at her plate. “No, I don’t think so, either. It’s unfortunate. He is still my father, but I no longer believe he is fit to lead Ferelden.”

“Is there anything else we should know?” Capella asked.

“Yes.” Anora took a deep breath, apparently steeling herself. “After Ostagar, many people have been rightfully upset. But the worst of it is in the Alienage. Few elves went to the battle, so I don’t know what reason they have for this, but there is great unrest there.”

I looked at Darrien. He was glaring at his plate, jaw clenched tight. Anora didn’t seem to notice; I don’t know if it was because she was accustomed to ignoring elves or if she had decided to spare him the embarrassment. Castor noticed, though, and I would bet Capella had, too. Castor took one of Darrien’s dark hands in his pale one, squeezing it gently. I looked away.

“We noticed it was closed off,” Capella said. “If what you say is true, then further investigation should be warranted. Whatever Loghain and Howe were doing there… I guarantee it will not continue much longer.”

Slavery, I wanted to say. But I didn’t dare, not with Anora and Eamon both present. I may know, my friends may trust me, but there was no reason to start an argument. The truth would come to light soon enough, and when it did, we would crush it. I vowed this to myself, and silently extended the vow to the other elves in our company. None of them would take kindly to this gross injustice.

Anora examined Capella, not bothering to hide it. Whether she was unnerved by Capella’s eyes and scar, I couldn’t say. She was a master of schooled emotions, an equal to Capella in many ways: both women were extremely cunning, and both doubtlessly had plans for the Landsmeet. I was certain that by now Anora had realized the relationship between Alistair and Capella was romantic, and I was certain Capella knew that Anora wanted to keep the throne.

Just what the young Cousland planned to do about that, though, was beyond me.

Dinner passed quietly after that.

 

As I walked down the hall to my room not much later, I saw Darrien pacing the corridor. He tugged at his hair and stared at the ground, and I thought I heard him muttering to himself. He stopped when I got close and whirled to face me. Opening his mouth, he started to say something, but began blushing such a bright red that it rivaled the Couslands’ hair, and instead just made a half-sound before closing his mouth again.

I drew closer, but did not speak. He tried again. “I just—” He growled, cutting off the next words. The tips of his pointed ears were crimson.

I waited. He pursed his lips and glanced around. “Room. Please.” With no further words, Darrien spun once more and marched into our room. I followed, amused. Something in his manner made me think of a puppy. A frustrated puppy.

I closed the door behind me. Littlefoot was playing with Faren, who had taken quite a shine to the dogs, so Darrien and I were completely alone. When I looked at him again, his face hadn’t gotten any less red.

“Have you ever been in love,” he said, suddenly. I think it was supposed to be a question, but between his embarrassment and his rush to get the words out, that got lost.

“Um,” I responded. Now I was blushing, too. I felt my heart start to race. “I-I-I… I mean, it’s—there’s…”

Darrien giggled. It didn’t sound like an amused giggle, not really. It was high and quick, and his eyes were huge. I giggled, too, unable to prevent it. I coughed and stared at the floor. Gathering what little courage I possessed, I swallowed and said, “I-I have. Of a sort. I mean, th-there’s—there’s just so many… so many, um.” I shook my hand, trying to force the word from my mouth. “There’s lots of types of it, I think, and I… I, just, maybe yes?”

I lost comprehension quickly. Darrien giggled some more, but it was a little slower this time, a little easier. “Yeah, no,” he said. “I mean, yeah, I know, I just… I mean romantic love. Like—like Capella and Alistair.”

I shrugged. “M-maybe? I mean, I haven’t… I haven’t, um. Haven’t exactly…”

I heard him sit on the bed. “Been in a relationship?”

“Yeah.”

“Me either. I mean. I was—I was supposed to get married, you know.” He laughed, then. “That was how this all started, I guess. How I became a Grey Warden.”

“Vaughan,” I murmured, chancing a glance up at Darrien. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Vaughan,” he repeated, tearing the word with his mouth. “Maker forgive me, but I killed him, and I don’t regret it.”

“He tried to—to—” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word. “He interrupted the wedding. And… your fiancee… he took her.”

Darrien looked at me. “We saved her. We fucking killed Vaughan and all his damn crones. Me and Soris. I—Castor said you found him at Howe’s place, and let him out. Thanks for that.”

“Of course.” I shuffled close and sat at the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know if Nesiara’s still alive. She was last I heard, but what the lady queen said about the Alienage…” He sighed and pulled a hand down his face. “And-and to top it all off…”

“You found someone else.”

He laughed. “Yeah. I don't know that she’d want to marry me anymore, anyway, and… She’s pretty, but I just… I didn’t want to get married in the first place. I told her as much, you know. Said I was doing it for my dad. To make him happy.”

“Tradition is important,” I said, “but sometimes, it is also unnecessary. I think… I think, if you told your father that you were happy…”

“Maybe,” he said, and sighed loudly. “Don’t know what he’d think of… of Castor, though. And I know Shianni wouldn’t approve. Not that she doesn’t have reason. She has more than enough reason.”

Darrien’s face was turning pink again, and he’d looked away. “She does. But Castor was the one who found Soris first, and he has never been anything but respectful to any of us.”

“You’re right, I guess.” He coughed and sat up. “I’m, uh. I’m gonna go… talk to him.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Just talk?”

He refused to look at me. “Maybe.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Darrien… what prompted this conversation? You seemed really—um. Really—intense.”

“I may have, uh… I may have kissed him. In Fort Drakon.”

A loud burst of laughter bubbled out of me, and Darrien turned enough to glare. “I’m sorry!” I said. “I’m sorry, I just—that explains why—at dinner—hehehe!” I covered my mouth, unable to contain the mirth.

“Fuck you,” he mumbled, starting for the door.

“No, no, you go ‘talk’ to Castor. And I won't wait up for you.”

The door rattled when he pulled it shut just a tad too forcefully. I giggled some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so remember how i said that writing during school goes SLOW AS FUCK for me? yeah well i haven't even finished a goddamn chapter for The Warden-Commander (which is the sequel to this and will take place over the course of Awakenings) so that's. fun. i do have all of The Blight written and ready, though, so at least until this particular one is finished i can do regular weekly updates. i'll probably take a short while off of updating after this concludes to get at least a couple chapters into TWC before i start uploading it, though. but you have until the epilogue! which will be chapter 22. it's short, but it wraps up some of the loose ends from the Blight to prep for TWC... and on.
> 
> i intend to write through the entirety of these games if I can. i have plans. we'll see.


	18. the eighteenth amendment

After breakfast the next day, we separated duties once again. Uncontested and unstated agreement made it so all the elves would go to investigate the Alienage. Capella reaffirmed her own plans to make nice with the nobles here for the Landsmeet, dragging Alistair along to the Gnawed Noble tavern. The dwarves decided they wanted to explore at their leisure. Leliana and Castor insisted on coming to the Alienage, though, and everyone else, much like the dwarves, was free to do as they wished.

Darrien led the way. He set a brisk pace, and while the taller people had no trouble keeping up with him, Neria and I were nearly jogging to not be left behind. Neither of us had the heart to ask him to slow down. It was painfully obvious that he was worried, and he had every right to be. When we approached the Alienage entrance, the guard standing there just gave us a half-hearted protest. “You really don’t want to be going in there,” he said, looking mostly at Castor and Leliana. “There’s a plague. Wouldn’t want you to catch anything.”

Castor smiled. “I’ve business there. I’ll take the risk.”

“Suit yourself.” The guard didn’t ask what type of business or try to stop the rest of us. He did give me a longer stare, though, eyeing my wooden staff. I ducked my head and followed Castor and Darrien into the Alienage.

Castor deferred to Darrien again as soon as we were out of sight of the guard. I could see him frowning at the buildings of the Alienage, at their obvious disrepair and how crowded together they were. I wondered if he’d ever been to an Alienage before, if he’d considered how city elves lived. I doubted it.

Darrien made straight for a door, ignoring the murmurs of a few elves who recognized him. He didn’t bother knocking, just opened the door and strode in. I glanced at Neria, and she tilted her head to the side. Theron and Castor didn’t seem bothered; they followed Darrien easily. Leliana paused in the doorway to beckon us along, and we scurried inside.

It was cramped inside with all of us. Castor seemed conflicted about where to stand—it was not his area of influence, but he didn’t want to leave Darrien’s side. Leliana was content to stand at the back, leaving the rest of us to shuffle around to find the optimal arrangement.

A young man with auburn hair came out of a back room to investigate the sounds, and when he saw Darrien, he let out a little shout. “Darrien!” He ran forward and brought Darrien into a hug, which was gladly returned.

“Maker, Soris,” Darrien said. “I’m so sorry. I should have told them it was all my fault, you know. You shouldn’t have been in the dungeon.”

Soris smiled. “There’s not much we can do about that, and I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. But you have my forgiveness, if that’s what you’re after.” Then he looked around, taking in the rest of the group, and Darrien introduced us. He stopped when Soris recognized Castor. “You!” he exclaimed. “I mean, thank you. I don’t exactly have anything to offer—seems what little I did have was taken during the riots, but… Thanks.”

“Of course,” Castor said. “I couldn’t let an innocent man rot in a cell, now, could I?”

Soris laughed. “Darrien, I heard you’d become a Grey Warden. Didn’t know you were one of the Grey Wardens, though. The ones Loghain’s been after.”

Darrien rubbed the back of his head. “Apparently I like to get in trouble with nobles.”

“Should I be worried?” Castor asked.

Soris raised his eyebrows, and Darrien coughed. The tips of his ears were red, I noticed. I suppressed a smile unsuccessfully as Soris started to grin. “So that’s why you weren’t so excited about getting married, huh?” he asked.

“Shut up!” Darrien demanded, but it was weak. Soris laughed.

“I don’t know how you’ll tell Shianni, but I’ll let you figure that one out.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Speaking of Shianni… I’m worried about her. She told me a bit about this plague that’s been going on, and the Tevinter mages that came to help, but…”

“Wait, did you say Tevinter mages?” Neria interrupted.

Soris blinked at her. “Yeah. They have some kind of—it’s not a cure, but it’s supposed to keep you from catching the plague. Dunno if it works, but no one’s wanted to try seeing if it doesn’t.”

“And the Chantry’s just—allowing them?” she asked.

“I guess so,” he said, shrugging. “There’d probably be Templars all over if they weren’t. Right?”

Neria frowned, but didn’t press for more. She looked to Leliana, and they had a silent conversation that I couldn’t follow. Darrien looked around Soris. “Where’s my dad?”

Soris shifted. “Shianni said he was taken into quarantine. It happened just a bit before I got here. She seemed really upset about it. Apparently, the ones taken to quarantine aren’t seen again. Or so she said. I don’t know much, though. You’d be better off asking her.”

Darrien nodded. “Yeah, alright. We’ll go do that, I guess. I’ll see you around?”

“Of course.” Soris clapped a hand against Darrien’s arm. “Go find Shianni.”

We filed back out of the little house. Darrien led the way through the narrow streets to the center of the Alienage, where a tall tree—the vhenadahl—stood proud. Elves filled the area, and chatter drowned all other sounds. One voice rose above them all, angry and bright. Darrien snorted. “That’s Shianni.”

She stood off to the side—or maybe the others had simply moved away from her. It was difficult to tell. She shouted at the gathered elves and insulted the bored-looking mages who stood in front of a squat building. “They’re lying to you! Everyone they take into that quarantine is never seen or heard from again! How can you sit back and watch?”

Occasionally, someone would engage her, unable to stand it any longer, but she just came back stronger. “Then where’s your niece? And my Uncle Cyrion? And Valendrian?”

“Shianni,” Darrien said, coming up behind her. She jumped and whirled around.

“Darrien!” she exclaimed, and hugged him quickly. “You’re back! I didn’t think—I heard that at Ostagar—but you’re alive!”

Darrien laughed. It was a quiet little sound, and very fond. “I am. And I brought others with me.” He gestured at our little group. Shianni did not react to Castor or Leliana, her face completely blank as she passed over them, but when she saw myself and Theron, she paused.

“Are you—are you Dalish?” she asked, staring openly at our vallaslin.

“Yes,” Theron said, and glanced at Darrien. “Really.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. “Wow. I knew there had to be something to the stories, but everyone else always said they were just stories.” She smiled. “Glad to know they’re not.”

Theron nodded, and Darrien changed the subject. “What’s going on here, Shianni? What happened to my dad and the hahren?”

Her face darkened, and she crossed her arms. “They were taken into ‘quarantine.’” Disgust ate at the word, warping it. “No one who’s been taken into quarantine has been seen or heard from again. I don’t like it. There’s something not right about this.”

I wondered if I should say something. Theron peered at me and Neria glanced, but… Should I speak up? Should I wait? Something must have shown on my face, because Neria touched my elbow and asked, “Vir’era? What is it?”

All eyes were on me, then, and I couldn’t worm my way out of this one. Not completely, anyway. I swallowed, and nodded at the mages. “They’re—they’re from Tevinter, right?” I asked, voice quiet. “That’s what Soris said.”

“Yeah,” Shianni said, and frowned. “Why? You don’t think…?”

I bit my lip and shrugged. “M-maybe I’m just paranoid. But… Tevinter…” I looked at Theron, and nodded once. He snarled.

“I’m going to talk to them,” Darrien said. “Maybe I can get them to let me in. You lot stay here.”

And he was gone. He approached a mage, started to say something, and then was promptly whisked into the building. Castor put a hand on a dagger. “That’s not good,” he murmured.

“No, it’s not.” Theron started to push his way forward. I tried to reach for him, but he was too quick. He was speaking with the mages in seconds.

They didn’t seem to recognize the meaning of the markings on his face, but I heard some of the gathered elves start to whisper. Zevran stalked in Theron’s wake, and I followed him. The whispering didn’t die down. Soon, Theron was growling at the mages and pointing at the so-called quarantine. I couldn’t hear anything for the commotion and the blood rushing through my ears.

If it happened fast or happened slow, I couldn’t say. I lost track of time briefly, and when I next paid attention, elves were streaming out of the building. Darrien was on their tails, and he was furious. He ran his sword through the gut of one mage before anyone could react, killing him.

Someone screamed. People scattered. I was nearly knocked down, but Zevran caught me and helped me stay upright. Theron had drawn Dar’Misu and was facing off against a guard as Darrien kicked the first mage’s body off his sword. The other mage was running, but he turned to face us soon enough, a shield shimmering around him.

Zevran zipped off to help Theron. I had just enough time to put a shield over Littlefoot before a spell fizzled over it, barely having missed my dog. Neria drew her sword and charged the mage. Her first blow was blunted, bouncing back without nicking skin. The second blow broke the shield—I don’t think Tevinter mages were accustomed to physical melee, and especially not from an Arcane Warrior. Neria’s third blow sliced his head clean off.

And the battle was done, if it could be called such. Three against nine (including mabari) was hardly a fair fight. The only one even vaguely injured was Darrien, and even that was because he had faced a few guards on his own inside the quarantine building.

“Vir’era was right,” he said as I used what little healing knowledge I had to fix the cut on his cheek. “They’re slavers. I bet there’s more of them, too. One of the men—he said they’ve been taking people out the back.”

“Surely Loghain would not allow this if he knew,” Leliana said. “This is despicable, even for him.”

“Won’t know ‘til we check it out.” Darrien jerked his head at the alley beside the building. “Let’s go.”

 

The apartment building in the alley was filthy and smelled it. If most of Ferelden smelled like wet dog, this building smelled like wet dead dog. Neria wrinkled her nose at it and cast a spell for light. I almost would have preferred she hadn’t. Dark stains marred every surface. Some of it was obviously old, dried blood. Some of it was unidentifiable. Dust had settled in corners and most of the rooms looked unwillingly abandoned. A beloved child’s toy wilted on the floor.

Darrien punched the wall. Most of the damage had happened not long after he’d been recruited, during the riots that had ensnared the Alienage. Some of it was more recent, though. I didn’t want to think of what the slavers did to the elves that resisted them.

A scared man pointed us down the hall to the old supervisor’s office, but begged us to do nothing. “They’ll know I talked!” he wailed. “They’ll take me next!”

We left him panicking in a corner. A small group of guards in one room tried to stop us, but it went about as well for them as it had gone for the mages at the quarantine. Darrien only paused long enough to loot whatever gold he could from them. “Might as well,” he said. “Not like they deserved it anyhow.” I didn’t disagree.

When we reached Devera, she started to taunt us for trying to do something about the slavery. Darrien didn’t let her finish; he drew his sword and lunged. She was quick, though and danced out of reach, pulling out her bow and jumping across a row of traps. She began firing before she hit the ground, joined by the other Tevinter archers standing there.

Castor knelt to undo the traps and Neria shot lightning at the group. It burned through their leather armor, stunning one guard long enough that I could trap him with Winter’s Grasp. Theron and Leliana began their own volley of arrows, breaking just long enough for Darrien to storm past the now-defunct traps. He leapt over the table, not bothering to head around it, and swung his sword down hard over my frozen guard.

Shards of frozen flesh flew and flayed his companions. Devera shouted, and Darrien swung again, catching another archer in the middle of firing. His arrow went wild; his bow broke. I watched it hit Zevran’s leg, bringing him down as he tried to get around the table in a less noticeable fashion.

“Zev!” Theron exclaimed.

“I’ll be fine!” he returned. “Do not stop firing!”

Theron huffed at that, but did as he was asked. I ducked down and hurried to the assassin’s side, ignoring his complaints. “They have it under control,” I said. “Let me fix you up.”

He sighed and let me. The skirmish ended soon after that. Neria tried to heal a cut she’d gotten, but only managed to congeal the blood. It was up to me, then, to heal people up for now. I wasn’t exactly the best at that, but at least I could do more than scab it. (Neria would probably have a scar for that cut that she wouldn’t have had if Wynne or Daylen had been around. Oh well.)

With Zevran back in working condition and all other injuries tended, we stalked down the hall. Darrien didn’t bother waiting for questions from any guards we came across. He killed at least two before they could so much as raise a weapon.

Not that I was complaining, mind you. They deserved it and it meant less people to fight. I was more than satisfied with this arrangement.

The final door between us and the Tevinter mage behind the whole operation was little more than shrapnel after Darrien was through with it. (Perhaps he didn’t need to force it down, but since there was no immediate need to stop him…)

Caladrius, as he introduced himself, started to speak. Darrien glared down at him from the upper level. Suddenly, Caladrius’ eyes widened and he cast a shield, quicker than any I’d seen. An arrow smashed into it and clattered to the ground, the sound loud in the ensuing stunned silence.

I turned to look at Theron. He had his bow out and was already aiming another arrow—at one of Caladrius’ guards this time. He fired. The guard fell. Caladrius shouted, and the rest of the guards drew their weapons. Darrien ignored the stairs, opting to jump over the railing and charge Caladrius himself. I heard someone shout his name.

Neria, either in the heat of the moment or out of inspiration, mimicked his action, but jumped onto a guard below. She crashed her shield into his helmet and shoved her sword through an opening at his shoulder. I slammed my staff against the ground, adding flames to my friends’ weapons.

Caladrius was my main concern—from the corner of my eye, I saw Castor, Dracula, and Zevran dealing with the guards at the stairs. Littlefoot chased down an archer, though I noticed too late the arrow coming for me, and only managed to slip to the side enough to avoid major injury. It caught my arm, ripping my robes and slicing my skin.

I cast enough healing energy to staunch the bleeding and refocused on the battle. I didn’t know any dispelling magic like Daylen, and none of us were Templars. Plus, Caladrius was Tevinter—he’d be accustomed to fighting magic with magic. He was less adept at fighting physical attacks, backing up in circles from Darrien’s onslaught, but still significantly better than the mages from out front.

There wasn’t much I could do. I spammed the ground behind Caladrius with paralyzing glyphs, casting two more in his way each time his shield managed to break one. I also added what I knew of shielding and auras to Darrien, making him glow like an avenging angel.

Every now and then, I checked to make sure no one on our side was bleeding out. I couldn’t tell if the blood on Zevran was his or his targets’, but he wasn’t slowing down, so I didn’t waste my energy. The guards all fell before Caladrius’ shield did more than waver.

The mage was starting to look battered—his shield may have blunted Darrien’s attacks, preventing blood from being drawn, but they did not dispel the force. He had his back to the upper level, fully concentrating on Darrien. I didn’t know if he was even aware of the glyphs I’d been casting, or if he’d decided they weren’t worth avoiding.

Another glyph, another strike, and the shield shattered. Three arrows hit Caladrius’ back. Castor threw a dagger into his side. He tried to yield, saying something about blood magic, but that did it. Darrien shouted, raising his sword above his head, and swung down. His head was not quite severed, but he was dead, regardless. Blood sprayed briefly across Darrien’s armor and face. He huffed as he stared down at the body, a sneer firmly on his lips.

I went to Zevran and made sure the blood was, indeed, not his own (some was, it turned out, but only minor injuries that even I couldn’t scar permanently). Castor sagged briefly and gave Dracula an appreciative rub before going to collect his dagger. Neria unlocked the cruel cage that held a group of fearful and surprised city elves, releasing them with a beatific smile entirely discordant with her literally bloody hands.

The sound of the lock drew Darrien back to himself, and he turned. The elves there stared as he took off his helmet. Someone muttered what sounded like an expletive, but I was too far to hear. “Darrien,” one of the men said, a small smile on his face.

“Thank the Maker,” Darrien breathed, and pulled him in for a hug. “I was worried they’d already sent you away.”

“It was closer than I’d like to think, but you came in time. You have your mother’s timing, I think. Adaia was always just where she needed to be when she needed to be there.” He smiled softly at Darrien, and I figured it was Cyrion, Darrien’s father. “You look so much like her when you fight.”

“She did teach me.” I hadn’t heard Darrien speak so softly ever.

“And it shows.” Cyrion looked at the rest of us, mostly standing awkwardly about now. “Are you all Grey Wardens?”

“Most of us, ser,” Castor answered, nodding his head briefly. Darrien snorted. “I am Castor Cousland.”

Cyrion’s eyebrows shot up at being called ‘ser,’ and by a human no less, but he didn’t comment. “A pleasure, I’m sure. Cyrion Tabris. Darrien is my son.” He motioned to the man standing next to him. “This is Hahren Valendrian.”

“Hahren?” Theron asked. “That is an elvish word. I didn’t know those in the city were familiar with it.”

Valendrian laughed, and for a moment I forgot we were standing in a warehouse filled with dead bodies. “We may not use much, but some words have stuck. Now, if you don’t mind, and while I am grateful for your aid, I don’t think I can see the last of this place too soon.” He nodded to us and led the elves—including Cyrion—back out to the Alienage.

Castor patted down Caladrius’ body to find the documentation of his permission to enslave Denerim’s elven population and everyone else picked around the area to take anything of note. I considered taking Caladrius’ staff. It would be considerably more powerful than my own, I was certain of that. But I had grown fond of this simple wooden staff, and it was the first thing I had been given since arriving in Thedas. It was the only thing I had managed to hold on to since my arrival.

I left the staff.

 

We went back to Darrien’s old house, passing by Anya and Faren on the way. They were going to the orphanage with the blind Templar to investigate—Leliana and Neria decided to go with them, leaving us two less when we crowded into the living room once more.

Dracula and Littlefoot laid down on the floor quite happily. Valendrian came in not long after, and smiled to see us all there. He joined Soris and Cyrion on the far side of the room. “Tell me,” he said, “how is Duncan?”

Awkward stares met his question, and Darrien rubbed the back of his neck. “He… didn’t make it, Hahren.”

Valendrian sighed and his shoulders fell a bit. “Ah… I had heard some Grey Wardens escaped Ostagar, and had hoped he might be among them. But that you live, Darrien, is enough for this old man.”

Darrien nodded. “I’m glad to be alive, too.”

“So,” Cyrion said, then, “we’ve had the young Lord Cousland’s name—”

“Please,” Castor interrupted, “I’m a Grey Warden now. Call me Castor.”

Cyrion inclined his head. It wasn’t surprising, I supposed, that he knew of the Couslands. They’d been a powerful family, one of two Teyrnirs in Ferelden. “Of course. Castor, it is, then. May I inquire about your other friends’ names?” Soris leaned forward, apparently interested in how this would play out. I saw him raise an eyebrow at Darrien and tilt his head in Castor’s direction, but the dark-skinned elf ignored his friend.

Darrien made the introductions. “Leliana and Neria left to help some of our other friends. Leliana was the human girl and Neria was the blonde girl.” Cyrion nodded, apparently recalling the two. “The dogs are Littlefoot and Dracula. Dracula’s Castor’s. Littlefoot belongs to Vir’era, the short brownish-haired one. The freckly orange-haired one is Theron, and the other blonde one is Theron’s—what do you want me to call you? His assassin?”

Zevran laughed. “No, I think lover should do just fine.”

“Right. Theron’s lover, then. His name is Zevran, and you should probably ignore most of what he says. That’s what we do. Except Theron, probably,” Darrien said. Theron rolled his eyes, but Zevran just laughed.

“It’s true! I don’t think I’d still be around if they all listened to me,” he confided, smiling charmingly at Cyrion. Cyrion gave him a bemused look in return.

“I’m glad to know my son is in the company of people who will watch his back,” he said.

“Oh, Castor is more than happy to watch his back,” Zevran teased. Darrien turned bright red and Castor coughed, seeming a bit embarrassed for the first time since I’d met him. Cyrion just laughed, a loud sound that filled what little space was left in the tiny home. Soris’ snickering joined it.

“So that’s at least part of why you weren’t so eager on the wedding, hm?” Cyrion asked his son, his grin infectious. I found myself smiling without realizing.

“Maybe,” Darrien muttered, and scuffed one boot against the floor.

Cyrion shook his head. “You could do a lot worse, I suppose. And I think you’ll probably be glad to know, then, that Nesiara has returned to Highever.”

Both Castor and Darrien sagged a bit. “Thank the Maker,” Darrien said. “That might have gotten awkward.”

“We did think you were dead. Normally, I’d say this in our defense, but since you’re actually apparently happy that you’re out of that particular deal… I’ll offer congratulations, instead.” Cyrion put a hand on Darrien’s shoulder. “I’m so very proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Darrien said. “I’m just glad you weren’t gone yet.”

“Speaking of which…” Theron stepped forward. “I think we should go tell Arl Eamon. Or, at least, someone should. Darrien, if you want to stay a while longer…”

Darrien shook his head. “No, no, you’re right. And even though I would like to,” he said to his father, “Theron’s right. We need to go tell Arl Eamon about Loghain’s treachery here. Hopefully it’ll do us good in the Landsmeet.”

Castor snorted. “If that doesn’t give the nobles at the Landsmeet reason to think twice about Loghain, then I’m glad to no longer be one of their number.”

 

Nigella, one of the arl’s servants, handed me a letter when we arrived. “The courier said it was for you, ser,” she murmured. I thanked her—it was from Mia Rutherford. It would seem we’d become pen pals, with how many letters we were sending back and forth. Theron raised an eyebrow at the letter, but I smiled and he didn’t ask for more.

Darrien slammed the papers on Arl Eamon’s desk—there was no better word for it. “Loghain has been selling my people into slavery,” he said. “That is how he’s funded this fucking war.”

To his credit, Eamon ignored the less-than-proper words Darrien used. He stared at the papers. “Maker forgive me,” he said, after a moment. “I should be appalled that such a thing could happen in Ferelden, but I am simply glad to have such a thing to hold against Loghain.”

Darrien sneered at him for this, but didn’t deny that it was in our favor. Castor stood beside him and put a hand on his back; Darrien leaned ever so slightly into the touch. Eamon glanced at the clock on the wall. “It is too late now to call for the Landsmeet today, and I believe Alistair is still being shown off by your friend.” He sighed. “Tomorrow. Will you be ready?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be, I think,” Castor answered.

“There is no reason to drag this on,” Theron added. “The Blight is coming still.”

“Indeed.” Eamon handed the papers back to Darrien. “I shall see you for dinner, then. There is much to prepare for tomorrow. Hopefully everyone else will be back in a timely manner.”

We were dismissed. I excused myself to go to my room and read Mia’s letter. It said:

_Vir’era Sabrae—_

_What’s Orzammar like? Are the dwarves really all smiths? I don’t see how they can be, but I’ve never met one. My friend Tanner swears up and down they’re all smiths and the king’s whoever finds the biggest jewel. I don’t believe him, but mostly because he likes to make up stories._

_Kerah’s decided that if ‘her statue’ is helping to stop the Blight, then it’s okay that it’s gone. She was pleased to hear that it was not only a girl, like her, but that ‘Miss Shale’ remembered her and said hello. I don’t think I’ll tell her the truth ever. This is far too cute. She does insist that I ask you to say hello to Miss Shale for her, and good luck. Apparently the birds miss her, too. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. I always got the feeling the statue didn’t like being shat on by birds._

_Amalia seems alright. It’s a bit hard to tell, because Matthias still won’t leave her alone for more than a handful of minutes, but she hasn’t gone crazy. I guess it’s good she’s not a mage. Or, at least, not officially a mage. I’m sure Matthias wouldn’t tell us if she was. I’m fairly sure he’s a mage, but don’t tell anyone I said that, as that’d make him an apostate, and he’s always done what he can to help out here. I don’t have proof, anyhow._

_Don’t write back until after you’ve finished the Landsmeet. Not because I care about interrupting, but because I’m sure this letter won’t get to you until you’re nearly done, and I want to hear firsthand what’s happened there. It gives me an edge, you see. I was the first to know about it here, anyways, and that this Alistair is a Grey Warden and King Maric’s son. I can’t let everyone down now, so you better not let me down, understand?_

_Mia Rutherford, 9:30 Dragon_

_PS: Maker’s breath, how do you pronounce your name? I have to keep calling you ‘the Grey Warden’ to everyone because I don’t know how. Is it like Vera? Where are you from that you have such a name?_

I laughed at that ending. What would she think of knowing she was writing to a Dalish elf? I supposed I’d find out—there was little reason to lie. Or, I corrected myself, little reason to lie more than I already was. Saying I was Dalish was a bit of a lie in and of itself, but… it was starting to sound like the truth. Maybe I’d said the lie too much. It didn’t matter.

I wandered back out to find my friends all gathered in the sitting room. Darrien glanced up when I came in. “I really hate Loghain,” he said.

I nodded. “He’s… he’s done terrible things.” A lame statement, and he snorted at it, but he nodded.

“We’re going to win, right?” he asked. “And we can kill him, then?”

I froze. Fuck. “I…”

They all stared at me now. I swallowed. “We… we could kill him,” I said, slowly. “But…”

“I hate this already,” Darrien said. “Wait until—until everyone’s back. I don’t think I’m going to want to hear this once, let alone twice.” I nodded and looked at my hands.

 

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for everyone else to return. Unspoken consensus brought them all to mill around in the sitting room with us, and conversation soon turned to the Landsmeet tomorrow. No one was pleased to learn of the enslavement of Denerim’s elves, though I hadn’t expected they would be. Even Morrigan seemed put off by it, though she was notably the least upset.

“Okay, Vee,” Castor said. “Everyone’s here. Tell us whatever it was you were saying earlier about Loghain and killing him or not killing him.”

I took a deep breath and nodded. “Right. Well—there’s—the thing is,” I started, staring resolutely at the fireplace, “there are a few ways the Landsmeet could go. Obviously.” I glanced at Capella. “Queen Anora wants to keep her throne.”

“She’s told me as much, yes,” Capella said. “She asked me to give her our support to retain her throne in exchange for her speaking out against her father.”

“Normally I’d be ecstatic to hear that, but I’m not sure anymore.” Alistair sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t really want to be king, but if the other option is her being queen…”

Capella examined her fingernails. “As far as she knows, I’ve agreed.”

“What?” Alistair asked, staring at Capella. “Really?”

She smiled and patted his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve a plan. All you need to know is that I’ve told her we’d support her bid.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, but Anya laughed. “I like the way you think, Capella.” If I was right, Capella had lied. She didn’t confirm or deny this in any way, but she did send that hidden-fangs smile to Anya.

“Alright, so that’s a thing. Now, Loghain?” Darrien asked.

“Loghain,” I said. “There’s—that’s where things get tricky.” Gods, would my plan work at all? Loghain could only live if Anora had the throne in game, but Capella clearly wasn’t about to let that happen, regardless of what she said to the queen. “We… could kill him. If Alistair is put on the throne.”

“You make it sound like you don’t want to kill him,” Daylen said. “Get on with it.”

I took another deep breath. “There is also… I—someone—I’m sorry, it is hard to put into words.” I rubbed my face, trying to organize my thoughts. It was hard with everyone staring at me. Harder than it already would have been. I should have practiced. “In abo-about ten years, something… Something terrible is going to happen. I-I won’t say more. I probably—creators, I probably shouldn’t have said even this much.” I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my hands.

Someone shut the doors to the room, and someone else put an arm around me. “Whatever you say now,” I heard Neria say, her voice next to my ear, “it won’t leave this room. I promise.”

Murmurs of agreement filtered into my thoughts. “Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”

“Take your time.” Neria rubbed her hand against my arm. It was nice.

“This—this thing, the thing that will happen…” I breathed in, and my breath was shaky. “At one point, it could cost the life of-of… Of one of two very good people. Or… Or it could cost Loghain’s life.”

I didn’t look around, my eyes still closed, but I heard a few gasps.

“So what you’re saying,” Capella said, her voice soft but confident, “is that if we spare Loghain now, it could save the life of someone worth saving in about ten years?” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. She hummed. “Is there more to it?”

I gulped. “He—he would need to become a Grey Warden himself.”

“No!” Alistair shouted. It surprised me so much (though I should have expected it) that I jumped and looked at him. “Absolutely not! I-I won’t—I won’t let you defile the order like this! I refuse to stand beside him as a brother!”

“Alistair…” Capella’s voice was as quiet as before, as confident. It had changed, though, like his name was something ultimately precious. “You wouldn’t need to. I do plan to make you king. You could leave the order and start your duties immediately—and Maker knows this country needs a good king right now.”

Alistair looked at her desperately. “I couldn’t just leave you to fight the Blight like that!”

Everyone was silent as Capella took his hand and kissed it. “Ferelden needs you,” she said. “More than we do, right now. We could force Loghain to see what he has done wrong, bring him to understand his faults, and then he could pay for his crimes by dying in the place of a person who deserves to live.” If Capella couldn’t convince him, no one could.

“Ella…”

“Sometimes we must do distasteful things to bring an ultimate good,” she murmured. “I won’t leave you alone forever, you know. I am a Cousland, even now. If you would have me… When the Blight is over, I would gladly be your queen.”

Neria gasped. I gaped. Castor started to laugh. Alistair floundered. “Wh—I—Ella, are you—oh Maker.”

Capella smiled. The firelight made her glow a little, her hair a beautiful bright red and her face like porcelain. “Well, Alistair? You can save a good man’s life by allowing a bad one to atone.”

“Fine!” he said. “Yes, fine, okay. I’m not fighting by him, though. You’ll—I’ll go play king until the Blight’s over. And then you—you’ll really—you’re not just joking, right? You weren’t just saying—that thing you said.”

Capella laughed. “I would never joke about that, my dear. Yes, when the Blight is over and Ferelden is saved… I’ll come back to you and be your Queen.”

Someone let out a whoop. I think it was Zevran, but it was a bit hard to tell in the commotion. Capella kissed Alistair, full on the mouth in front of everyone, and Castor cat-called. Cheers rose up, and despite the less-than-wonderful news which had started the day, something had happened. That was worth celebrating.

Leliana began to sing, a soft and slow but sweet song: “Where Lagan stream sings lullaby…” I caught her and Neria smiling at each other like nothing else existed as she sang. It was adorable. They were adorable.

Capella and Alistair left early, obviously intent on celebrating in the privacy of their own room. I laughed as cheers followed them out once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my lagan love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTxjuZ47ETQ&feature=youtu.be) is the song leliana sings here at the end


	19. landsmeet already wow

I couldn’t keep my heart from pounding the next morning. Arl Eamon left early, barely having greeted us. He said we were to bring Alistair and to make sure that all the Wardens were present, but didn’t mention anyone else. Everyone would likely come, anyway. I doubted they’d want to miss this after everything they’d gone through to get to this point.

Well, except maybe Sten. He found it all ridiculous and useless. But that’s an entirely different matter.

Darrien paced the sitting room impatiently. Castor sat in a chair, but his leg was bouncing. Alistair couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted to sit or stand. Capella, Anya, and Theron were all cool as cucumbers, though. Capella and Anya were talking quietly, heads bent together and words intent but indecipherable from a distance. Theron just looked bored.

Daylen leaned against a wall, arms crossed. Morrigan was next to him, describing in scathing detail how little she cared for politics. He smirked every now and again, but his fingers tapped against his arm. Faren seemed about as bored as Theron, but seemed more intent on figuring out if Dracula could sniff out the rabbit meat from breakfast among Oghren’s ales.

As Stellaluna knocked over a particularly precariously placed bottle, the game was over. Wynne sighed at the mess, and Oghren reclaimed his drinks. Faren tossed meat to Dracula and Littlefoot to even it out again. Finally, the waiting was too much for Darrien. “Well? Are we gonna sit here all day, or are we gonna fucking do something?”

Capella stood and stretched—Alistair watched a bit less than subtly—and then she nodded. “Alright. The Landsmeet is likely about ready for our presence now.” She held out one hand, and Alistair took it with a smile.

“Time to face the music, then,” Castor said. He didn’t hold out a hand for Darrien, but Darrien didn’t seem to notice or care.

Capella led the way. Our procession drew a number of stares, especially with the red-haired Cousland twins at the forefront. By now, all our faces were more or less recognizable, but they were the most distinct. I was able to fade into the background, more or less unnoticed, and I was grateful for this.

No one spoke during the twenty-minute walk to the palace. The doors seemed daunting—tall and ornate, decorated with Ferelden’s crest as well as images of snarling mabari. They opened as easily as any, though, and Capella strode in with the confidence of a show-horse.

Ser Cauthrien stepped forward. “Wardens. I am not surprised it has come to this.” Her eyes took us all in, dark and determined. “And Alistair. If you were even remotely worthy of being called Maric’s son, you would already be in the Landsmeet, now, wouldn’t you?”

The sneering words made Alistair flinch ever so slightly, but Capella didn’t react. She waited as Cauthrien continued to speak. “You have torn Ferelden apart!” the knight accused. “You oppose the very man who ensured you were born into freedom!” She pointed a finger at us all. “Do not think you will get past me to desecrate the Landsmeet itself. The nobles of Ferelden will confirm my lord as regent, and we can finally put this to rest.”

Capella released Alistair’s hand and stepped forward so that she commanded all of Ser Cauthrien’s attention. “Ser Cauthrien,” she greeted, and her words were not unfriendly, but warm, like greeting an estranged friend. “Can you not see what Loghain has become?”

Cauthrien’s jaw clenched and she glanced away briefly. She did not back down, did not give in. Not yet. “I have had…” She sighed. “So many doubts, of late.” She lifted one hand and clenched it earnestly. “Loghain is a great man, but his hatred of Orlais has driven him to madness.

“He has done terrible things,” she continued, “I know it! But I owe him everything. I—I cannot betray him. Do not ask me to!”

Capella tilted her head and nodded. “Then let us stop him. You know it is the only way.”

Cauthrien sighed again. “I never thought duty would taste so bitter.” She stood aside, taller than before and face set. “Stop him, then. Stop him from betraying everything he once loved.”

We started to move forward to walk past her, but she dropped to one knee as Capella drew close. “Please!” she begged. “Show mercy. Without Loghain… There would be no Ferelden to defend.”

“I know,” Capella said, her voice very quiet, almost dropping into nothingness in the little chamber before the throne room. “Don’t worry, Ser Cauthrien. I could not forget.”

Cauthrien bowed her head and did not watch as we passed her to walk into the Landsmeet itself. I glanced back, and thought I saw tears on her cheek, but my vision was soon blocked. Maybe I had been seeing things.

The voices of Arl Eamon and Teyrn Loghain rose above any other murmurs in the chamber, echoing even through the throne room doors. Eamon spoke, words muffled, and Loghain immediately began to rant. He was louder, fiercer, even through the wooden doors. Capella pushed them open.

“Aha!” Loghain crowed. “And here is the Puppetmaster herself!” He pointed at Capella, ignoring everyone else. “Tell me, Warden! How will the Orlesians take our nation this time? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their orders through the would-be prince? What did they offer you? How much is the price of Ferelden honor now?”

“The Orlesians are not the threat here, Loghain,” Capella countered quickly. “The Blight is the true threat! The Blight is what we should be fighting, not ourselves. Or have you not noticed how it has torn apart the south already?”

Loghain started to snarl back, but Bann Alfstanna, up in the balconies overlooking the room, interrupted him. “There are enough refugees in my bannorn now to make that abundantly clear,” she said.

“She speaks the truth!” Arl Wulff declared. “The south is fallen, Loghain! Will you let darkspawn take this country for fear of Orlais?” He leaned against the balcony to stare at Loghain.

Loghain faced the arl. “The Blight is indeed real, Wulff,” he said. His words were methodical, slow—he had practiced his words, choosing them carefully long before appearing here in the Landsmeet. I could only hope that Capella was half as prepared, but I was starting to suspect that doubting her was unnecessary. Loghain took a step to the middle of the room, opening his arms to address the entire gathered population. “But do we need Grey Wardens to fight it?

“They claim that they alone can stop the Blight.” He raised a clenched fist. “But they failed spectacularly against the darkspawn at Ostagar! And they ask to bring with them four legions of chevaliers!” He paused for a moment to let that statement sink in. “And once the Blight is done? Once we open our borders to the chavaliers, can we really expect them to return from where they came?”

Muttering and murmuring followed this bold accusation, dragging into light the ever-present memories still held by many Fereldens of the Orlesian occupation. It had only been thirty years, and none were eager to revisit such a time.

Capella allowed this for a few seconds, but then she drew herself up and retook the floor. “You allowed Rendon Howe to capture and torture innocents,” she said. Her voice was hard like diamonds and just as captivating. Many nobles gasped in horror.

“She speaks truly!” came a voice—the arl of Dragon’s Peak. “My son was taken under cover of night. The things done to him… some of them are beyond any healer’s skill!” He looked haunted, and yet more cries followed his words.

Loghain wouldn’t have it. “Howe was responsible for himself,” he said. “He will answer to the Maker for any wrongs committed in this life—as must we all.” He focused his gaze on Capella once again, scrutinizing her. “But you know that. You were the one who murdered him.”

To her credit, she didn’t flinch. If anything, she stood taller, like she was proud of her actions, and unafraid to claim them. Maybe she was. Loghain waved a hand to the side. “Whatever Howe may have done, it should have been brought to the seneschal! There is no justice in butchering a man in his own home.”

This was what Capella was waiting for. I saw her glance over her shoulder at Castor, a little blood-red smirk settling onto her face. He nodded, and she pulled out papers, displaying them for the nobles to see as she spoke. “You sold Ferelden citizens into slavery to fund your war.” Her voice was even and her hands didn’t shake.

Mine did. Everything in me felt like it was shaking, rattling about. I gripped my staff, glad we had not been asked to check our weapons at the door. Its smooth wood, warmed by the innate magic it held, soothed me enough that I could continue to stand on my own. I saw Darrien shaking, too, but I think it was of anger, not anxiety.

“Slavery?” someone asked, scandalized. I couldn’t identify who. “We do not allow slavery in Ferelden!” the voice continued, growing louder.

Loghain made a face. I think he meant for it to look dutifully apologetic, but it came out more constipated. (Or, maybe, didn’t come out. And that’s why it was constipated.) “And it was necessary to keep order,” he defended. “Order that you disrupted!

“But enough of this!” he declared, and cut the debate short. “Whatever I have done, I will answer for later. At this moment, I wish to know what the Wardens have done with my daughter.” Confusion swept through the room, measured in the noises and murmures it left in its wake.

“The queen?” I heard someone ask their neighbor. “Have they done something to her? I haven’t heard of anything… My daughter saw her in the marketplace just two days ago.”

“Oh?” Capella asked. “And what do you wish to know of that, pray tell?”

Loghain sneered, leaning forward. “You took my daughter, our queen, by force, killing her guards in the process! What arts have you employed to keep her?” he demanded, murmurs rising around us. I swallowed. “Does she even still live?”

“I believe I can speak for myself.”

That single phrase interrupted Loghain’s anger, bringing forth a few gasps from the doors to the side of the throne. Anora stood there, an unfluttered smile on her face. Once she was sure she had the attention of the room, she began to walk forward, unhurried but no less determined for it.

“Lords and Ladies of Ferelden, hear me,” she said, moving to stand behind Loghain. “My father is no longer the man you know. This man is not the hero of River Dane.” I was starting to get tired of the constant shocked gasps which met every third sentence in this Landsmeet. Were the nobles of Ferelden really so naïve as to expect that things would be simple or smooth?

Loghain’s eyes widened and he turned to face his daughter, anger clear as day as she continued to speak. “This man turned his troops aside and refused to protect your king as he fought bravely against the darkspawn!” Her words hit home for many, backing up the claims Eamon and my fellow Wardens had made since the start of this war.

“This man,” Anora said, voice steady yet full of conviction, of passion, “seized Cailan’s throne before his body was cold, and locked me away so I could not reveal his treachery.” Treachery. What would she think of Capella’s treachery? My friend had promised her aid, promised to support Anora’s bid for the throne, but she had lied, saying only the words which could guarantee Anora’s help.

Anora’s face looked so sad, so disappointed, that I wondered how Loghain could face her still. She made herself seem vulnerable as she said her next words, emphasizing their power. “I would already have been killed, if not for these Grey Wardens.”

Those gasps again. Oh no, what a shock. Anora was exaggerating, I was sure, but the nobles assembled didn’t know that. They didn’t know the extent of her cunning. Perhaps even Loghain didn’t.

“The queen speaks the truth,” Capella announced, stepping further forward, and nodding respectfully to Anora. She acknowledged this with a nod of her own, as if they were equals. Perhaps, in her mind, they were. I couldn’t help but think that Capella had an edge over Anora, though.

“So the Wardens have poisoned even your mind, Anora?” Loghain asked, quieter than he had been since the start of the debate. “I wanted to protect you from this.” He sounded duly regretful. He took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders, and turned to face the room at large once again.

“My lords and ladies!” he said, voice ringing through the hall once again. “Our land has been threatened before. It’s been invaded, and lost, and won, times beyond counting! We Fereldens have proven that we shall never truly be conquered so long as we stay united. We must not let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me, and we shall defeat even the Blight itself!”

Regardless of how much influence Loghain had now, a cheer rose up at that. He was charismatic enough to hold their attention for this, and everyone here wanted to see the Blight defeated. There was little reason, in their minds, not to cheer. I wished I could tell them the extent of what Loghain had done. But I could not, and the debate had ended. Capella stood back to allow the nobles to cast their votes. I tried not to hold my breath; Capella was clever, had played her cards just so…

“South Reach stands with the Wardens!”

“Waking Sea stands with the Grey Wardens!”

“Dragon’s Peak supports the Wardens!”

“The Western Hills throw their lot in with the Wardens. Maker help us…”

“The Wardens helped me with a… family matter. I stand with them.”

“I stand by Loghain! We’ve no hope of victory otherwise!”

“I stand with the Wardens! The Blight is coming, and we need the Grey Wardens.”

Capella smiled. I counted my breaths, trying to control it all so I could keep my calm. (Well, what was left of it.) “The Landsmeet is against you, Loghain,” she said, almost gently—almost. “Step down gracefully.”

Loghain snarled. “Traitors! Which of you stood against the Orlesian Emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives?” Castor had to reach out and grab Darrien’s arm at this, for he’d started to move forward as if to strangle Loghain where he stood. Loghain spun to point at Arl Eamon. “You stood with us once Eamon! You cared about this land once! Before you got too old and fat to even see what you risk.” His words were all but spat.

“None of you deserve a say in what happens here!” Loghain continued, now waving his hand around at all the nobles. “None of you have spilled blood for this land as I have!” He glared at Capella, and she met his eyes with grace and ease. “How dare you judge me?”

“Call off your men and we will settle this honorably,” she said instead. His eyes flashed like a blade being unsheathed, and I could only assume her face held all the poison and danger I knew her to be capable of.

“Then let us end this.” Loghain nodded tightly and half-smirked bitterly. “I suppose we always knew it would come to this. ‘A man is made by the quality of his enemies.’ Maric told me that once.” I watched him examine each of us, and even managed to meet his eyes when they came to me. “I wonder if it is a compliment more to you or me.

“Enough.” He looked up at Bann Alfstanna. “Let the Landsmeet declare the terms of this duel.”

She stepped forward and put her hands on the railing of the balcony. “It shall be fought according to tradition,” she declared. “A test of arms in single combat until one party yields, and we who are assembled here will abide by the outcome.”

Capella nodded, apparently familiar with the terms, as did Loghain. They faced each other, and Loghain’s hand flexed on the pommel of his sword. “Will you face me yourself or have you a champion?” he asked her, having taken her for the leader of our group. I suppose she was.

She turned to look at us. She was an archer, adept in combat but not made for close-quarters. She didn’t consider Alistair, if the way her eyes passed over him was any indication, and she started to consider Darrien, but soon he, too, was passed over. She was exchanging a silent conversation of eyebrows and head-tilts with Castor when Neria stepped forward. “If you have no objections,” she said, “I would fight him.”

No one spoke for a moment, and then Capella’s grin widened. “I see no reason why not.” She stepped back, gesturing the little elf forward. “Neria Surana shall be my champion,” she declared for the court.

Quiet yet noticeable muttering followed this statement. Neria was tiny compared to Loghain—she didn’t even reach five feet tall, I was certain of it. (To be honest, I wasn’t sure I did, either.) Her pale blonde hair was pulled back, leaving her pointed ears plain for all to see. Regardless of her height, she did not look like a child; her face was doubtlessly that of a woman, and she carried herself with the confidence of age.

Loghain took all this in, took in the newly-shined armor she wore, almost too large for her frame, and nodded. He did not protest fighting a woman, did not mock her for being an elf. She was his adversary, and he had accepted it. I was grateful for that, if nothing else. Neria picked her helmet up and settled it over her face; only her sky-blue eyes could be seen behind this mask.

The two circled each other and those of us on the main floor gave them room to fight. The clunk of armor on stone killed the silence of the crowd, and the whole room held a collective breath until at last Neria drew her sword.

Loghain drew his own sword quickly, not to be outdone, and the circling stopped. Neria clanged the flat of her sword against her shield, the loud sound projecting her image, and the room dropped in temperature as she iced the blade with a silent tendril of magic. Loghain, who was not wearing a helmet, stared at this unexpected development as if trying to decide whether it was cheating.

He didn’t get long to worry; Neria ran forward with a savage yell, and he was forced to lift his sword to parry. He met her yell with a shout of his own, a fierce sound that would send lesser opponents recoiling. Neria pushed off his sword, jumping back to stand a few feet from him. He started to charge her, shield forward. She side-stepped and caught him in an ice glyph, one dampened enough to catch only his feet.

Surprise rolled through the room again. A mage with a sword? Or a warrior with magic? They couldn’t decide. Both were correct, I wanted to say, but didn’t dare distract Neria. I watched, holding tight to my staff as she took advantage of his forced stillness to ram her shield into his back. The breath left him audibly, but the force also broke the ice.

He stumbled forward and turned. I saw something change in how he watched her; he was adapting. She was no ordinary knight, and though her physical attacks might have less finesse, her magic made up for that. Loghain regained his breath faster than he rightfully should have.

He began attacking immediately, a series of quick blows that sent Neria scrambling backwards. She caught one on her shield, and it clanged loud enough to cover the little cry I saw her release. I winced in sympathy, but she refused to give in. Good—she couldn’t. We couldn’t.

Their blades caught each other next, and the metal sang. Loghain held the offensive with determination, but Neria was a quick learner, and she began to block his blows before they got close. She shouted, a bright sound, and Loghain stumbled back. She must have used Mind Blast. He yelled right back, but it was delayed and did not intimidate Neria in the slightest.

Her freezing blade hit his shield, forcing him to the ground, and lightning arced from it. His eyes widened, but he couldn’t roll out of the way; she held him down firmly. Anora cried out as Loghain was hit by the spell. He stiffened, mouth gaping but no sound forthcoming. Neria pushed down on her sword, crushing his shield against him, and jumped away once more.

He started to stand. Neria didn’t allow it, capturing him with Winter’s Grasp and freezing him. She walked behind him as he knelt, frozen, and put her sword against his neck. He defrosted quickly enough, and she asked, “Do you yield?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “I yield.”

She stepped back, sheathing her sword, and rejoined us. Leliana lifted her helmet off to kiss her forehead, and Neria smiled.

Loghain did not stand from his kneel, head bowed. “I underestimated you, Wardens.” He huffed. “I thought you were like Cailan, just children playing at war.” He stood. “I was wrong. There’s a strength in you I have not seen since Maric died. I yield.”

“We accept your surrender,” Capella said, taking command once again.

Alistair made a face where he stood, like he wanted to protest and it was taking all he had to restrain himself. I didn’t doubt that this was the truth, and I smiled at him for this. He just scowled at me.

“Well?” Loghain asked. “Will you kill me now?”

Before Capella could answer, Riordan came forth. “Wait! There is another option.” Loghain narrowed his eyes at the man, but Capella smiled serenely. Alistair turned his glare to the floor. I think he started counting tiles so he would not need to hear the words that came next. “The teyrn is a warrior and general of renown,” Riordan said. “Let him be of use. Let him go through the Joining.”

Capella hummed. “Would he be loyal to us?” I hoped she was simply pretending this. She had—she had told me…

“If you spared my life,” Loghain answered, voice dry, “I would consider it.” She stared at him and said nothing.

“The Joining is often fatal, is it not?” Anora asked, then, stepping forward to make her father’s case. “If it succeeds, you have gained yourself a general. If not, then you will have your revenge. Doesn’t that satisfy you?”

Capella hummed again, and looked back to us. I met her eyes and nodded. She pursed her lips and sighed, putting one hand gently on Alistair’s arm. He didn’t reciprocate, but didn’t move away. That was a victory, I supposed, when faced with his (understandable) hatred for the very man whose life we were trying to save.

“Yes,” Capella said. “This is acceptable.”

Alistair flinched, then, and I swear Anora looked far too pleased. Eamon came up—when he had descended to the main floor, I didn’t know—and summed up the events with, “So it is decided. Alistair will take his father’s throne.”

“Oh?” Anora asked. “I believe it is the Wardens’ decision to make, Eamon, not yours.”

“Yes,” Capella said. And then she gave Anora a smile so pleased with herself, so full of trickery, it was a wonder that it had remained hidden so long. “And Alistair shall be king.”

Anora’s eyes widened. She started to protest. Capella cut her off, continuing her words. “And I shall rule beside him as Queen.”

“You’re a Warden!” Anora exclaimed. “You cannot take the throne!”

Eamon shook his head. “She may be a Warden, but she is of Cousland blood… That is more than suitable for a Queen of Ferelden.”

The nobles began chattering again, like a group of talkative birds. They seemed mostly to agree with Eamon, at least, though there were a few that looked disgruntled. Perhaps they disliked the idea of having two Grey Wardens on the throne.

“Alistair shall renounce the Grey Wardens to begin his duties as king immediately,” Capella declared, “and once the Blight has been defeated, I shall join him.” Anora pursed her lips and made no attempt to stop the proceedings, realizing she had been outplayed.

“Long live the king!” someone shouted, and it was echoed by everyone in the hall.

Eamon faced the former queen. “Anora, do you renounce your claim to the throne and vow your loyalty to the new king?”

She gritted her teeth, but I saw her look at Loghain. He nodded, and she deflated. She knelt in front of Alistair. “I pledge my loyalty to Alistair, son of Maric.”

“Thank you,” Alistair said, quietly. “As king, I name you Arlessa of Denerim, and you shall have a place in my court as advisor.” I hadn’t expected him to be so… pragmatic, but perhaps this was Capella’s doing. She was nodding in the background, a little grin on her face.

Clever girl.

I was beginning to believe that Capella really and truly could make anything happen simply by directing it to be so; she had, after all, managed to talk Alistair into letting Loghain live and bringing Anora into his court. She had also talked her way onto the throne with him, talked Cauthrien down from attacking us… She was a force to be reckoned with. I could see why Alistair looked at her as if she had told the sun itself to shine.

The Landsmeet ended soon after that. Alistair gave a brief but encouraging little speech, assuring the nobles that together, we could—and would—defeat the Blight, Archdemon and all. He was met with cheers and another round of ‘long live the king,’ and then it was over.

 

We all returned to Arl Eamon’s estate, even Anora and Loghain. Alistair refused to attend Loghain’s Joining, and didn’t hide his glare when Riordan tried to convince him otherwise. “I am no longer a Grey Warden, Riordan,” he said, voice flat. “I gave that up just now, weren’t you listening? I’m… I’m the King of Ferelden. And I need to… start doing king stuff. It’s not my place to attend Warden rituals.”

Riordan sighed, but acquiesced. He did ask the rest of us Grey Wardens to attend, and we did not refuse. Loghain seemed dubious about it all, glaring at the Joining Chalice as though it might burn him. “From this moment,” Riordan said, the traditional words not doing much in the crowded room, “you are a Grey Warden.”

Loghain took the Chalice and drank. His face didn’t betray the taste, but I could feel it on the back of my tongue. It was unforgettable. I grimaced. Loghain fell to the ground, Riordan catching the Chalice before it could spill. As Castor and Daylen rearranged Loghain so he was not face-down, Riordan filled a small pendant with some of the bloody solution.

“His Warden’s Oath,” he told me when he caught me staring. “Do you still have yours? Duncan would not have forgotten.”

I nodded, pulling the necklace up from under my robes. The little pendant must have been enchanted in a similar manner to phylacteries, because the blood and lyrium had not dried. It seemed as fresh as it had been the day I had my Joining—how many months had it been now? Four? Five? I wasn’t sure.

Riordan nodded, too, and all that was left was to wait for Loghain to wake up. We would return to Redcliffe then. (Yet, that sounded somehow wrong to me. The final battle took place in Denerim, I knew—why were we going back to Redcliffe? I couldn’t figure out why. My journal didn’t tell me.)

 

_Mia,_

_No, the dwarves aren’t all smiths. Some are, and some are merchants, or warriors, or any variation that exists on the surface, really. We have two dwarven Wardens with us. One is the former Princess of Orzammar; her name is Anya. Her brother, Bhelen, is the current King, and it’s definitely not because he found the biggest jewel._

_As far as my name, I’m not sure how to write it on paper. Veer-era is the closest I can think of. Veer-era Sab-ray. I’m Dalish, so it makes sense that you would not know. My clan is from the Brecilian Forest, mostly. At least, that’s where they were the last time I saw them. Understandably, I had to leave them when I joined the Wardens, and they have gone north to escape the Blight._

_I won’t tell anyone your suspicions about Matthias and Amalia. I am a mage myself—I was the Second to my Keeper. I find the Circle and the Chantry to be… oppressive, often, even if they’ve good intentions. At least now, I need not worry. The Wardens have always welcomed mages._

_You asked me to wait until the conclusion of the Landsmeet to tell you what had happened there, and I have kept my word. I will be returning to Redcliffe shortly, but this letter will hopefully reach you before I make it there._

_My friends and I won the Landsmeet. Alistair is now the King of Ferelden—he took up his father’s name, too, so he’s now King Alistair Theirin. Another of our number, Capella, is going to be Queen once the Blight is over. She’s a Cousland, so the court could hardly say no, and I know she wasn’t about to leave Alistair’s side. The former queen, Anora Mac Tir, has been named Arlessa of Denerim, since Arl Urien and his family are all dead, as far as we know. Former regent Loghain has been inducted to the Grey Wardens. Alistair wasn’t very happy about that, but he left our order to start his kingly duties right away._

_This could be a new start for Ferelden, I think. My people, if not my clan, are marching to fight for Ferelden. The dwarves have joined the effort. Even the mages are preparing for war, despite what happened recently at Kinloch Hold._

_Things will be bad for a while, especially in the south. Even now, the darkspawn are strongest there. Please keep yourself safe. I believe the Blight is coming to a cresting point. It won’t be long before the Archdemon shows its face. We will be ready. We will stop it. Tell everyone this. I promise it to you. The Blight will not take Ferelden._

_Vir’era Sabrae, 9:30 Dragon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i do have one question for you guys and i'd appreciate it if you'd let me know: do you like reading the letters written to and from vir'era or do you feel like they're unnecessary? i like writing them, which is probably obvious from how many there have been, but that doesn't mean they're interesting to read. i'd like to make sure i'm not taking away from the story by adding them.


	20. the calm

Arl Eamon left before the rest of us to prepare the troops gathering at Redcliffe. He left horses and carriages for us to take, though, so we wouldn’t be too far behind, and instructed us to take a boat across Lake Calenhad, as it would be faster than going all the way around.

Something nervous kept shifting in the pit of my stomach, but I couldn’t figure out just what was wrong. I had never had the best memory, but to forget something that, at least now, felt so completely important… It was an alien feeling. I wondered if I would forget more, if I would even remember anything from Before not in my journal in a year’s time.

I didn’t have the luxury to dwell on it, though. Not now. Alistair wouldn’t be heading to Redcliffe with us—especially since Loghain was in our company now. Instead, he was working with Anora and various advisors to get things settled in for his reign. He’d be moving to the palace once we left. I didn’t know if I’d see him much after that.

He was angry with me, I knew. For Loghain. Whether or not it would pay off eventually, he was angry now, and it felt like betrayal to him now. That’s what mattered, I told myself, as I approached him in a moment when he was alone in Eamon’s study.

“Alistair?” I asked. He jumped, turning quickly. I guess he hadn’t heard me come in.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.” He sounded displeased, but… not as angry as I’d feared. I hoped that was a good sign and not something else.

I stepped forward. “I… for what it’s worth, I am sorry. I know—I know you didn’t want this. Didn’t want to be king, and definitely didn’t want to let Loghain live, but… I wanted to thank you, too. For doing it. All of it, the king bit and the Loghain bit. It’s—I’m sorry, again. And thank you.”

His shoulders fell and he made a noise like he had expected me to say something else entirely. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you, you know that, right?”

I smiled. “Me? Never.”

He rolled his eyes, half-smiling back at me. “You’re right, though. I don’t like it, and I don’t know that I ever will. But you… you haven’t been wrong before, and Capella also thinks it’s the right thing to do. She’s generally good about knowing that sort of thing. I trust her. I… I trust you, too. I’m still angry, though.”

“With reason,” I said. I wanted to go to him, to hug him, maybe, or just be closer, but I didn’t want to invade his space. Not when we were balanced so precariously as it was. “I do think you’ll be a great king. Maybe not in the way you’re expected to be, but in the way you need to be. And that’s what counts, in the end, isn’t it?”

He laughed. I remembered the first time I heard it, thinking it sounded a bit like sunshine. It was still true. It was a warm laugh, bright and yellow. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed, scuffing a shoe against the floor, and peered at me. “I don’t know if I can really be alright with that whole Loghain thing just yet, and I’m glad you’re not asking me to—I mean, you’re not, right?”

“No, I’m not.” I shook my head for emphasis, and was rewarded with a little nod and a smaller smile at the affirmation.

“Right, good. Anyway, I’m glad you’re not, and maybe someday I’ll be okay with it, but until that day… I’d still like to be your friend. I can’t go adventuring anymore, which is a bit of a downer, but hey! I get a fancy bed in exchange. Oh, and really good cheeses. I can have all the fancy cheese I want now. It’s great. What was I saying?” He trailed off, scrunching his nose in thought.

I giggled, which made him smile probably the first true smile in the conversation. “Something about not adventuring,” I told him, “and wanting to still be friends. Which I do want to. Still be friends, that is.”

“Right!” He smacked his hands together. “I remember now! Okay, so I can’t go running around the countryside with you lot anymore, especially not with the Blight and the fact that I literally just became king, uh, yesterday, but what I can do is write letters. I can write as many as I want.”

“Do you know your letters?” I teased.

“Hey!” he objected. “I can write! I can write very well, I’ll have you know. Everyone told me bastards can’t write nicely, so I decided to prove them wrong. I had the nicest handwriting in my group when I was still with the Templars.”

“Is that so?” I asked. I tapped my cheek. “I’m not sure I believe you. You’ll have to prove it to me and write me lots of letters so I don’t forget it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I see what you’re after! And you’ll regret this, I promise you. You’ll have so many letters in such pretty writing, you won’t know what to do with yourself.”

I wagged a finger at him. “I’m holding you to that promise, Alistair. Don’t disappoint me, now! What kind of king would you be if you can’t keep a promise like this, hm?”

He laughed. “A terrible one, surely.” Then he shook his head and started making shooing motions at me. “Okay, enough of this! I’m supposed to be—doing something. I forget what. I’m sure I’ll remember when a certain tiny elf isn’t distracting me anymore. Don’t you have things to do yourself?”

“Yes, I suppose I do. Good luck, Alistair.” I waved at him and left the room, leaving him to contemplate the walls again. Or whatever it was he was supposed to be doing, which probably wasn’t just staring at the walls.

 

Capella, Castor, and I took our dogs out into the courtyard to bathe them, after Wynne suggested we do so. Well, more like she told us that it would be unacceptable to allow such dirty dogs to ride in the carriages, and that she would also not allow them to walk alongside, so we were left with a decision of either cleaning them or leaving them behind.

None of us were about to leave our mabari.

Stellaluna was the calmest about the event. She stood still in the small bath that had been brought out, allowing Capella to pour water over her fur without complaint. Littlefoot tried to squirm out of the bath at least three times before I had even taken out the soap. I was soaked through in no time. He didn’t seem to care. Dracula tried escaping once, but Castor stopped that much more efficiently.

We worked together to bathe the dogs. I wrinkled my nose at the various bits of… creators-know-what that came off into the bath. Most of it was dirt, thankfully, but at least some of it was blood. Dracula and Stellaluna also both had warpaint on, and it left swirls of pigment in the now-murky water.

I lifted one of Littlefoot’s paws to work on a large clump I found. It could have been just about anything. I honestly didn’t know. Castor scrubbed at any part of Dracula he could get soap on before the dog inevitably tried to shake it off. Capella got to be methodical about it, starting at Stellaluna’s head and moving back and down with the grain of her fur.

As I wrestled Littlefoot back into the water from yet another escape attempt, Castor glanced over. “Why don’t you ever paint Littlefoot?” he asked.

I scrunched my nose and squeezed my eyes as the dog in question shook, again. Glaring at Littlefoot, who seemed completely unaffected, I shrugged. “I don’t have any warpaint and I don’t know any patterns.”

Castor hummed. “That makes sense, I suppose.”

“Of course it makes sense,” Capella said, rolling her eyes at him. (He stuck his tongue out in retaliation.) “Vir’era grew up among the Dalish, who don’t keep mabari, and we never bothered to teach him any patterns or give him any paints.”

“Show off,” he teased. She didn’t react, instead choosing to continue bathing Stellaluna. She’d be done long before either Castor or me. Dracula tried to jump out, and Castor bopped his nose gently. “Stop that. It’ll only last longer if you keep trying to get out.”

Dracula whined. Stellaluna sneezed. I looked at Littlefoot. “Castor’s right, and it applies to you, too, you know. Stellaluna will be out long before you. See? She’s almost clean already.”

Capella smiled, obviously pleased to have the most manageable dog, and Stellaluna stood up straighter. Littlefoot huffed and stood still—or, at least, stiller. It was an improvement, at any rate. “Would you like me to teach you one of the warpaints?” Castor asked.

I tilted my head and patted Littlefoot’s back. “What do you think, da’fen? Would you like to have warpaint?”

He wiggled around to give me a long lick, and I laughed. “I think that’s a yes,” I told Castor. “We’d appreciate that.”

Castor grinned. “Brilliant! Then, after we’re done here—and after the dogs are nice and dry, I’ll show you one. Whichever one you want. They don’t do much other than look pretty, so I’ll let you make the decision.”

I nodded and got back to work at the dirt still in Littlefoot’s coarse fur. True to form, Stellaluna was done long before either Dracula or Littlefoot, and so she was dried as thoroughly as a towel could and then brought inside to finish drying in front of a fireplace.

Littlefoot behaved better after the promise of getting warpaint. Apparently, some kind of treat or treasure was really all the encouragement he needed. I’d have to keep that in mind—previously, when I bathed him, it had taken twice as long as today. I always ended up almost as wet as he was, though. I thanked the servant who brought an extra towel profusely. He just seemed amused.

Castor was done about the same time as I was, but he was half as wet. I wrung out the sleeves of my robe (one sleeve still torn from the warehouse) and most of the skirt. Eventually, I just gave up, figuring that as long as I wasn’t literally dripping, it’d be fine. Littlefoot panted happily up at me as though he were perfectly innocent.

Littleshit.

We walked together to the sitting room. Stellaluna was drowsing by the fire, and our dogs went to join her. Capella had disappeared somewhere—likely to be with Alistair. She wouldn’t see him again for a while, though I was certain it would be sooner than she expected. I didn’t expect the Blight to last longer than another month at most.

Castor sat on the floor near the fire and motioned me to join him. It was probably better for us, damp as we still were, to not sit on the furniture just yet. The stones were warm beneath me, made so by the fire.

“Okay,” Castor said. “So, there’s a few warpaints I know well. The Couslands have always kept mabari, so we have a traditional one. That’s the one Stellaluna usually has; Capella’s always favored it.”

I was familiar with it: red, but a dark shade, closer to congealing blood than the bright color of the twins’ hair; it was applied to Stellaluna’s feet and along her spine, almost completely covering her face, with sharp stripes along her ribcage. It was quite a fearsome sight indeed, and gruesome when she growled in the dark of a dungeon.

Castor continued, “I switch around a bit more. I like to do whatever seems best when I’m actually painting—or whatever I’ve got the colors for, sometimes. I like the one my trainer called ‘Kaddis of the Courser’ best. It’s the same color as the Cousland one, which means if I’ve run out of paint I can nick some from Capella, and it looks banded.”

I nodded. “Is there a reason for the names?”

“Well, traditionally the Cousland Kaddis is used for dogs fighting by their master’s side. Kaddis of the Courser’s supposed to be for the ones that run after fleeing opponents.” Castor chuckled. “We don’t really bother much with what they’re meant for, though.”

I hummed. “What others are there?” I had never paid much attention to the warpaint. It hadn’t seemed as interesting. Maybe I’d been missing out.

Castor tapped his chin, examining me and then Littlefoot. “I’m not sure which ones you might like best, but one of the few others that Capella sometimes uses is called ‘Kaddis of the Trickster.’”

I perked up at that. Kaddis of the Trickster? I wondered if it had anything to do with Fen’Harel—probably not, because how many elvhen had mabari?—but I wondered nonetheless. Castor grinned.

“Thought that might get your attention. You’ve said something about tricksters before. Don’t remember what, but that word stuck out to me.” He leaned back. “Kaddis of the Trickster is supposedly so old that it comes from the days of Dane. You know of Dane, right?”

I frowned. Dane… “No,” I admitted. “This is the first I’ve heard the name. Who was he?”

“Someone of legend. Well, sort of,” Castor amended. “We’re pretty damned sure he existed, but most of the stories about him are really insane by now. At any rate, he was a great Alamarri warrior. Some say he’s the one who bred mabari, but most people say it’s Tevinter who did that, so I don’t think that particular legend’s true. Anyway, he’s the one River Dane’s named for.”

“I see. So, he’s ancient history.”

Castor sniggered. “Yeah, you could say that. So this Kaddis is old as shit, which is really the point I was getting at. Dunno why it’s called Kaddis of the Trickster.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “So I got a mini history lesson just because you felt like it?”

“Yeah, basically.” He grinned, obviously unashamed. “My trainers used to do that all the time when I was still figuring this lump out,” he said, nudging Dracula gently with a foot. Dracula huffed, peering over his shoulder, and settled back down when Castor didn’t bother him more.

“What’s it look like?”

“A skeleton.”

I blinked. “A skeleton? Like a mabari skeleton? Or like a human skeleton?” That would be something. Probably not very intimidating, but something.

“A mabari skeleton, of course!” Castor made a face at me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I flapped an arm at him. “How was I supposed to know? You didn’t give me much to go on.”

He rolled his eyes. “Who would paint a human skeleton on a mabari, Vee?”

I scrunched my nose. “Oh, alright. Fine, I give. It sounds pretty, though.”

“Pretty?” Castor demanded, leaning towards me. “Pretty? The Kaddis of the Trickster, which is supposed to look like a skeleton, sounds pretty?”

“Yes.” I looked him in the eye and very, very carefully did not let myself smile.

Castor snorted and leaned back again. “Whatever you say. Pretty. Maker, what kinds of things do you elves teach?”

“Come off it,” I said, and he sighed at me. “Will you teach me that one?”

“Yeah, alright. Wait for the dogs to dry—and you, too. I don’t think wet elf is in fashion.”

 

Some force of fate put me next to Loghain and across from Anya in the carriage ride to Lake Calenhad. Faren sat across from Loghain; no one else had been willing. I hadn’t wanted to sit near him, but Capella had gained control of the seating arrangements. I suspected this was a small amount of revenge for bringing him into our number at all.

His presence was huge. It always had been, I suppose, but it felt tangible in that little carriage. Wynne was on my other side and Oghren sat across from her. They exchanged pleasant banter about ales and a whole host of other things. I tried to concentrate on it instead of Loghain. It wasn’t easy.

I was growing stiff by midday, and Anya nudged my foot with hers. “Relax,” she told me. “You’re making Littlefoot nervous.”

I glanced to my mabari, who had placed himself determinedly between my feet and Loghain’s. He was tense, and I supposed Anya was right. I sighed, forcing myself to let my muscles unclench, and scratched him behind his hear. “I’m worried,” I said. Though Loghain was the immediate source of my tension, he was not all of it.

“Yeah,” she answered. “I think we all are. Or do you mean something else by that?”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t—I don’t think so, anyway. Sometimes I… forget.”

She shrugged, leaning into Faren. He had one arm around her and was dozing. “Even you can’t know everything. Don’t worry so much about it. You’ve done a lot as is. Maybe it’s the world’s way of making sure we can’t cheat too much.”

I huffed, a quiet little laugh. “Maybe,” I conceded. I swore I could feel Loghain’s eyes on me, trying to understand the conversation that had just occurred, but I didn’t dare check.

Faren peeked one eye open. “She’s right, yanno,” he said, words quiet and slurred slightly. “Not s’posed ta cheat this much.” He yawned.

Anya patted his knee. “Go back to sleep, love. There’s still a few hours.” He mumbled something and squeezed her shoulders, but drifted back off.

“How long have you been together?” I asked, then, wanting to change the conversation. It wasn’t subtle in the slightest, and she raised an eyebrow at this.

“Since about a month after our Joining. Not many dwarven Grey Wardens even in Orlais, and they’ve actually got a respectable number of Wardens, there,” she said. Loghain must have made a face, because her gaze switched to him. “Oh, don’t you start. Blah, blah, boo-hoo, you hate Orlais. Well, guess what? I hate nugs. Doesn’t mean I don’t have to deal with them sometimes.”

I giggled, echoed by a booming laugh from Oghren. “You tell ‘em, sister!” he said, having apparently been listening in. “Been waitin’ for someone ta do that.”

“You did say as much,” Wynne said, her voice ever the calm one. “Please, do mind your volume. We are in a confined space.”

“What?” I couldn’t tell if Oghren genuinely hadn’t heard Wynne, or if he was messing with her. I don’t think she could either, if the weary sigh was any indication. She didn’t repeat herself, at any rate.

Anya pulled me into a longer conversation about Orlais, then. I think she just liked to see Loghain squirm.

 

When we stopped to camp that night, Loghain put a hand on my shoulder. “A word, if I may,” he said, and though it was phrased like a question, it sounded like a demand. Faren was still close enough to hear, and he glanced over.

I swallowed and looked up at Loghain. It felt like looking at a giant. “Of course,” I heard myself say. My voice was far calmer than it had any right to be. Or maybe I was past the point of caring. Maybe I was so nervous that I had looped right back around into calmness.

I followed Loghain to stand just off to the side of camp. We were still in full view of everyone, which was likely entirely intentional on his part. I was grateful for this small mercy; the last thing I wanted was to be alone with Loghain in any great capacity. This was fine. This I could do.

“I do not know what that conversation this afternoon was about with the dwarf, nor will I ask, so do not think that is what I wish to know.” He stared down at me, eyes dark as night. “What I do wish to know is thus: I tried to speak with the Cousland girl, but she refused to. She told me it was by your graces that I yet lived. Tell me, then. If even she did not want me alive, why would you?”

It took everything in me to not look down at the ground. I felt numb. For a long moment, I didn’t say anything. I tried to regulate my breathing. I don’t know if he could see that; if he could, he made no mention.

“Well?”

“I—” My voice stuck in my throat. Creators, I was going to cry. I couldn’t cry. Not here, not in front of him! That would be the height of humiliation. I swallowed again. “The answer to that question… is also related to the—um, th-the, the…” The conversation. Conversation. You know this word. Say it. “The—with Anya, what she said to me, earlier.” Fuck it.

He narrowed his eyes, turning them to dark slits. “Is that so.” He crossed his arms. “Fine. Then explain it all. I will not suffer this longer than I must.”

Suffer what? I almost laughed, a manic urge that swelled up only to be overtaken by the ever-present fear that lived deep in the marrow of my bones. For once, I was grateful for that. “I… I-I… asked Capella t-to… to let you live. Because I-I—because I have—” Mythal save me. I cannot even speak.

Loghain shifted, obviously growing impatient. I took a deep breath and looked over his shoulder instead. “Because I have sentenced you to a different death.”

He huffed. “Well, that didn’t work very well, did it, now? The Joining did not kill me, for whatever good that is.”

“That is not the death I intended for you, either.” Ha. Staring over his shoulder was working. I could fucking speak again.

“Is it not?” I saw him shift again. “What death have you imagined for me, then? Shall I die on a darkspawn’s blade?”

My hands clutched my staff. Littlefoot, ever present, pressed against my legs and whined. “No,” I said, denying Loghain once again. “I’m afraid it’s rather more cruel than that.”

“Fitting.”

“Y-you… you will have years yet. I… Hopefully, when the Blight is over, w-we… we will not meet again.” I paused. Should I say what I expected at all?

“I hardly find that surprising.” He stepped into my line of vision again, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Is there more?”

I stared at him. “If I am still alive when it happens, then the next time you see me… After the Blight, after things are settled and the remaining darkspawn are dealt with, the next time you would see me would be… That’s when you will go to your death.”

“So you are giving me a chance to right my wrongs before I am to die for them,” he concluded.

I nodded.

“There is no other benefit from this?” He stared hard at me, and I smiled a tiny little smile.

“Your death saves a life.”

“Just one? I hope it is a worthy life.”

“I would have let you die if it were not.”

Perhaps it was the surety of the words, the fact that I had said them without hesitation, but he nodded, then. I don’t know just how much of the story he believed. Perhaps he thought I was insane. Perhaps he, like everyone else who’d heard it, thought it was simply some byproduct of Dalish magic.

It didn’t matter. My words were an omen. Maybe I was, too.

 

We stayed a night at the Spoiled Princess, having reached Lake Calenhad some time after dinner, and far too late to venture onto the waters. We ate downstairs at the bar, our coin greatly pleasing the bartender. He knew we were the Grey Wardens, but no one bothered telling him anything else. I doubt he knew that his future Queen ate there that night.

I originally was to have a room to myself. Not because I had asked for it, but because that was how the cards played out. Darrien was sharing with Castor each night, now. I didn’t mind, mostly. I had gotten used to not sleeping alone, though, and something in me shuddered at the idea of sleeping truly alone.

At least I had Littlefoot. He made it easier. If I had trouble sleeping, he would lay atop me; his weight was a comfort rather than a burden, and I would be out within minutes. I didn’t mind sharing with only him.

But just as I was preparing to sleep, a knock came at my door. Littlefoot, already on the bed, picked his head up to watch, and I went to answer it.

Theron stood behind the door. He was frowning, emphasized by the vallaslin. “Lethallin,” he said, “can I come in?”

I nodded and stood aside to allow him entrance. His hair was down, I noticed, and he wasn’t wearing any of his armor. He was ready for bed. I shut the door. “What’s wrong?”

He took a deep breath and sat on my bed. Littlefoot nudged his hand, pushing under it to ask for pets. Theron smiled briefly and started to scratch the dog’s head as he answered me. “I… am not sure. Zevran is upset with me for something.” He pursed his lips. “He has hardly spoken to me the last couple days.”

“Oh,” I said. I came to sit next to him. “What happened?”

“In Denerim, on the first day,” he started, and then told me of meeting Taliesen. Apparently, while I had been on the mission to rescue the queen, they had run into Zevran’s old friend. But Zevran had not hesitated to defy the Crows, declaring his loyalty to Theron quite loudly. “And after the Landsmeet, Zevran offered me an earring.”

I couldn’t keep my smile down. “An earring?” I asked. “Was it something special to him?”

Theron ran a hand through his hair; the strands caught the candlelight and shone like flames. “I think so. He said it is a trophy from his first kill. But, lethallin… I asked him if it was… A gift that meant more. A romantic gift. He said no.”

“No?” Oh, I knew this story. But I would let Theron tell me.

“He said it was just a thank you. For defeating Taliesen. So I said I couldn’t accept it, not if he—not if he didn’t mean anything by it.”

I hummed. Theron fell backwards onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Now he won’t talk to me.”

“I could try, for you,” I offered. He frowned at me. “I think he just doesn’t know what to do with himself. He is quite smitten with you, everyone can tell.” Theron blushed.

“…Fine. But don’t you dare say I sent you.”

“Of course not,” I reassured. “You didn’t, after all. This was my idea.”

He nodded, and I got up. I started towards the door, but he grabbed my hand. “Mana, Vir’era! You mean to go now?”

I blinked back at him. “Why not? Lethallin, I don’t know how much time we have left before the Blight begins to overwhelm Ferelden. I would rather see you happy again sooner, and there is nothing pressing to stop us just now.”

I saw his jaw work and could all but hear him turning over the thought in his head. At last, he let my hand go and sighed. “Ma nuvenin. I will wait here.”

I raised one eyebrow at him, but he had turned to stare out the single window over Lake Calenhad. Satisfied, I left the room to seek out Zevran.

It wasn’t hard to find him, though I hadn’t expected it to be. He was in the room he’d been intended to share with Theron. The door was open, as was the window. A little breeze wafted in, bringing with it the strong smell of fish and something metallic that seemed to inhabit the lake near Kinloch Hold.

Zevran looked up as I entered and smiled. “I did not expect to see you tonight,” he said. “Come in, come in! Theron has gone somewhere. I don’t know where, but surely he will be back soon.”

I sat in the single chair as he ushered me over to it. “I’m here to talk to you, actually.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, but he didn’t stop smiling. “Really now? How wonderful! What shall we talk about, hm?”

“Well…” I picked at the sleeve of the large undershirt I’d taken to wearing as a nightgown. “Truth be told, I wanted to talk to you about Theron.”

“Ah.” He continued to smile, but his eyes lost their brightness. “I see.”

“Zevran…” How to start? What should I say? “Do you remember when we were with the clan in the Brecilian forest?”

“What about it?” he asked, leaning against the bedpost.

“Do you remember Cammen?”

He clicked his tongue and thought for a moment. “Cammen, Cammen… Ah, yes! The young man with the unfortunate inability to woo a lady.”

I laughed. “Yes, him. Do you remember what he said when you asked if he had given Gheyna gifts or tried to bed her?”

“Let me think…” I watched him mull it over. His arms were crossed, and one finger tapped against his arm. “…Ah.”

I smiled softly at him. “Is that a yes?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose you must think me a bit of a fool now, no?”

“Not at all,” I assured. “Theron doesn’t stick quite as closely as Cammen to Dalish tradition. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, which traditions he thinks are important.”

Zevran sighed and tilted his head back. “Would you mind to… send him here? I think I would like to talk to him.”

“Of course.” I stood and walked over to him. We hugged—a quick little hug, and I patted his face. “I don’t think you’ll need it, but I wish you luck anyways.”

“Thank you, my friend.” He gave me a genuine smile, and I left the room to fetch Theron.

The next day at breakfast, they looked happier than I’d ever seen either of them. When I asked, Theron confided that Zevran had as much as proposed. Their happiness influenced everyone, and we climbed into boats with light hearts.

 

But of course that bliss could not last long. What goes up must come down, and a mood is no exception. We arrived at Redcliffe village in the evening, the sun and sky casting orange shades over the water, making it look like a sea of flames. No one stood at the docks and no one came out of any houses as we disembarked, but we did not need to ask why.

We could feel them. The fingers pressing into our brain matter like putty told us: the darkspawn had arrived before us. Helmets were donned and weapons were readied as we rushed, not bothering for stealth, to meet the creatures wherever they stood.

They were frighteningly easy to dispatch. Few had proper armor, though we knew the darkspawn more than capable of making and wearing more than the shoddy work we saw then. It wasn’t good. We knew that, all of us, without saying.

A man at the bridge, who had foolishly tried to return to his home to fetch something, informed us that everyone had been moved to the castle. Where they would stay, I didn’t know. Nor did I care. At that moment, the important task was to reach the castle and get the information we needed.

We fought yet more darkspawn along the way. Even a few ogres showed up, but they, too, were hardly the caliber we’d grown accustomed to fighting. They went down like towers of sand.

Arl Eamon was waiting for us in the main hall of his castle. Anora was there, too. I hadn’t expected to see her, but apparently she had taken it upon herself to rally what troops she could in the war effort. She was no longer a queen, but she was still a Teyrn and an Arlessa. It was appropriate enough, I supposed.

Riordan stood beside Arl Eamon, and as he told us that he had been wrong, that the main forces of darkspawn were heading to Denerim, led by the Archdemon itself, I tried not to curse. I had known that! I had known, I swear it, yet I had forgotten. I could have told them the final battle would occur in Denerim, could have warned—but it was no use worrying about that now. I had to concentrate. I could dwell later.

“Grey Wardens, if you would meet me… There is something we must discuss about the Archdemon and the Blight.”

No one questioned him. No one asked why he would so deliberately exclude those not in our order; whether it was out of simple respect or because of the decisive victory we had had at the Landsmeet, I didn’t care. I knew what he would tell us.

I went anyways. I had no excuse not to. All of us crowded into the room he had been given, and when the door shut behind the last to enter, we stared at him. “Have you ever wondered why a Grey Warden is needed to defeat the Blight?” he asked.

“The Archdemon,” I said. It felt less like I was the one speaking, and more like someone else had decided to take over, but I didn’t have the frame of mind to listen to his next words. Maybe I should have. Maybe the others needed to hear it. But I was selfish, and I didn’t think of that.

Riordan looked at me and nodded. “Yes. When an Archdemon dies, its soul passes into the nearest tainted creature. That is why the ancient Blights lasted so long. The Archdemon would be defeated, would be killed, but its soul would continue and it would rise again.

“A Grey Warden, however, both bears the taint and has a soul.” I bit my cheek just enough to feel the pain, just enough to refrain from interrupting. “When the Archdemon dies, its soul tries to pass into the Grey Warden. But it cannot, and it is destroyed.”

“And so is the Grey Warden,” Capella said. Her voice was flat as a blade and just as sharp.

Riordan nodded, expression grave as death. “Normally, the Senior Grey Wardens would decide who would take the final blow. But… As there are so few of us in Ferelden, and my time is nearly come anyway, it should be me who makes the sacrifice.”

I felt someone staring at me, or so I could have sworn. I thought it was Loghain. I didn’t dare check. I needed to talk to Morrigan. Daylen would be willing to do her ritual, surely? I hadn’t spoken to him in a long while—he was usually off with her, and rarely one to talk anyways—there was no reason why he wouldn’t…

The conversation continued around me for a few short minutes. I didn’t hear a word of it. As soon as Riordan dismissed us to get some sleep, I took hold of Daylen’s arm and pulled him to his room, where Morrigan stood waiting.

She turned as the door opened, and laughed. “I had wondered if you would know, Vir’era,” she said. “Am I right in thinking you do? Or is this simply some grand coincidence of the world?”

“I don’t know that coincidences are so convenient,” I replied and let go of Daylen’s arm. He huffed next to me and muttered something that sounded like ‘crazy damn elf.’ I didn’t ask.

“True,” she said, and stepped forward. “Should I take it that you approve of my plan, then? Or have you come to tell me to stop?”

I smiled. “I’ve come to make sure it works. If you cannot make Daylen agree… Well, we both know I can’t substitute, but I will do what I can to help find someone else.”

“You surprise me.” She nodded at me, smiling back. “Perhaps I should not be.”

“Perhaps.”

“Will you two stop speaking in riddles and tell me what’s going on?” Daylen demanded, crossing his arms and glaring at the two of us. “I’ll assume it has something to do with the whole sacrifice bullshit Riordan just told as about.”

“Indeed,” Morrigan said. “I have a plan. The loop in your hole.” He raised an eyebrow at her, unimpressed, and she just gave him a desperately fond smile. “There is a ritual…”

She told him about the ritual, about how she could conceive a child with him that would bear the taint. About how that child would be able to absorb the Old God’s soul from the Archdemon and effectively cleanse it.

She told him that she would leave when it was done, and that he mustn’t follow her.

He didn’t like that part.

“I can’t do that, Morrigan,” he said, and held her hands in his like lifelines. “I can’t leave you or let you leave me or whatever it is you’re saying. Especially not if we have a child.”

“You must, Daylen.”

“Morrigan…”

“Do not think it easy for me to leave you,” she said, voice vehement. There were the barest beginnings of tears shining in her eyes. “It is not. But ‘tis what must happen, and ‘tis what will. If you lay with me tonight, I shall stay with you until the battle is over, and then I will be gone. If not… I shall leave tonight. You mustn’t come after me.”

I think Daylen had decided he might be able to convince Morrigan if only he could have her close for a while more. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Of course I will.”

I left the room, then. I think Daylen had forgotten my presence. Morrigan had not, I was certain, though she did not ask me to leave, nor did she acknowledge me as I did. My plans had worked. We would not die, none of us.

It was still hard to sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
> _da'fen_ \- little wolf  
>  _lethallin_ \- term of endearment among the dalish, reserved for close companions. 'lin' is blood; a likely literal translation is 'clansman' or 'cousin.'  
>  _mana_ \- wait/stop  
>  _ma nuvenin_ \- as you wish


	21. the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit holy shit holy shit you have all been very kind to me and i am very grateful for all the kudos and lovely comments! a while back, when i first linked to a picture of my wardens, i said that if this story got to 50 kudos i might color it. and it did. [so i colored it.](http://dinosaurdragon.tumblr.com/post/131305961586/i-am-worse-at-coloring-digitally-than-i-am-at) but i only have a shitty knock-off photoshop so i'm afraid the coloring is significantly worse than the original drawing even was, so for that I apologize. thank you all so very much and i hope you continue to enjoy!
> 
> there is only one chapter after this, a bit of an epilogue, and then i will be taking a break until, if all goes well, around thanksgiving. i only have two full chapters for the sequel written yet, and i want a bit more buffer than that so i won't leave you all hanging after a new chapter. i promise i won't make you wait too long, though!

The trip back to Denerim was tense. That’s the only word that really applies. I could hardly settle down, and sleeping was difficult; when this was over, if I made it through, I would probably more or less pass out. Darrien spent a lot of time pacing. I only saw Daylen at meals. Everyone was balanced precariously on edge. Even Leliana’s songs didn’t help.

I tried to sing, too. Most of the time I was too jittery to hold a tune, and when I could, it didn’t calm me as it should have. It worked only once, on the last night before we would reach Denerim. The moon, full and bright, shone overhead; we had not stopped until it became too difficult to go on. Leliana sat by the fire, poking it occasionally with a little stick. Neria leaned against her side, one arm wrapped around the bard’s waist.

I sat across the fire. Leliana had just finished a song I didn’t recognize and couldn’t remember. I think it was an Orlesian ballad. I could think of little other than the fire in front of me and the battle we would surely face the next day.

“I have no more songs to sing tonight,” Leliana said when Oghren asked her to sing another. “And my voice is tired. Sorry, Oghren.”

He huffed and looked at me. “How ‘bout you, Warden? You think you can sing somethin’ tonight?”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about singing, but at this point, it was worth a shot. “I think I have one that will fit,” I murmured, and Oghren let out a little cheer, urging me to sing. He was the only one who managed even a façade of ease in the face of the oncoming storm.

The fire crackled loudly, a load-bearing stick breaking to ash and sending a few others down in a shower of sparks. Theron added new kindling, and I breathed in deeply. The smell of smoke, of nighttime forests, of camp and cleaned weapons and cooling stew settled in my mind, coming to rest firmly. I would not see this scene again, I knew, so I strived to etch every detail into my core. I didn’t want to forget.

And then, as wind rustled the leaves and blew a few embers from our fire, I began to sing.

_“O misty eye of the mountain below,_  
Keep careful watch of my brothers’ souls  
And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke  
Keep watching over the Grey Wardens…” 

 

We led the charge once we reached Denerim. Mostly because we needed to, so that we could more easily find and kill the Archdemon. But also because we were expected to, because the men and women who had gathered to fight for us were doing just that—fighting for _us_. We couldn’t let them down, not in any capacity.

The darkspawn horde had overrun the city. Not many human citizens were left; I was unsure if it was because they had fled or been killed. I didn’t dare think long on it. The humans could afford to leave, in most cases. I knew the Alienage was still full, the elves unable to spare enough coin even to run from certain death. This knowledge pained me. I hoped few would die.

We threw ourselves into the battle. I spared little attention to watching the specific movements of my friends for the start of the battle; they were capable, strong, and fierce. I did not need to watch their backs in this first area, where, even outnumbered by the darkspawn as we were, so many others were fighting with us.

Instead, I focused on downing as many of the vile creatures as I could. Littlefoot and I were a good team; I would immobilize a darkspawn (or a group) and he would kill it. I tried not to watch when the creatures did manage to take an ally unawares.

I didn’t always manage.

We took the gates back in less than an hour. Most of the capable horde, it seemed, had massed inside the city. The darkspawn here, much like those at Redcliffe less than a week ago, were the unskilled ones, the ones who lacked vital armor. They didn’t seem to care. I don’t know if they even noticed.

As the troops kept the main gate secure, Riordan summoned the Wardens to tell us what he knew. “The Archdemon is here,” he said, though all of us were more than aware. “I can feel two generals in the city, though exactly where… I do not know.” He eyed us. “I do not know if killing them is worth the effort, but we have enough strength and numbers that if you wished to, I would have no objections.”

Then he sighed. “I think it would be best to try and lure out the Archdemon. Perhaps Fort Drakon would be advantageous; it is high and defensible.” Nods all around. “It is time, I think, for us to go into the city itself. We should split into groups.”

“If we’re splitting into groups,” Theron said, “then there is no reason not to take on the generals.”

“Fair enough.” Riordan spared him a smile and a nod. “I suggest pairs of at least two Wardens and groups no larger than five. You may wish to leave some of your companions here. The armies look to you and yours, Wardens, and it would bring up morale to have some here, fighting with the troops.”

Capella, Anya, and Theron all nodded, and had a quick conversation between themselves. They were the undisputed leaders, after all. They split us up quickly. “Castor, Loghain, Wynne,” Capella said, “you three are with me. We’re going straight to Fort Drakon.”

“Faren, Daylen, Morrigan,” Anya said, “we’re going to the Market District and killing any ‘spawn on the way.”

“Vir’era, Neria, Darrien,” Theron said, and I quietly laughed that all the elves were together again, “we will check the Alienage. Few know how to fight there, and I would not leave them to the darkspawn.”

Darrien let out a loud breath. “Thank the Maker,” he muttered. I think if anyone had tried to keep him from the Alienage, he’d have flat-out refused.

“And who shall lead those you have left here?” Riordan asked.

“Sten.” Capella didn’t hesitate in naming him, and Sten even smiled.

“Indeed,” he said.

Riordan nodded. “I will go ahead, then. Good luck, Wardens.” He turned and walked away, off to the main city. Off to his death.

We spared a few brief moments to murmur our good-byes to each other. I stood back, mostly. I was bad at this, and I couldn’t let myself think this really was good-bye. We had to live, all of us. That’s how this story was supposed to go. We had to.

Neria shared a chaste kiss with Leliana. Castor and Darrien were a bit less chaste; Zevran flat-out refused to acknowledge that such a thing could occur. I heard him make a quiet joke when Theron finally pulled away. Theron didn’t respond to that, saying instead, “Ar lath ma, Zevran. I love you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. When next I opened them, Neria and Darrien were next to me, their swords held ready. Theron approached us and slung his bow from his back. “Let’s go,” he said.

And so we went. Cheers followed us, people shouting encouragement and declaring their allegiance. It all blended into a blur of babbling in my head. I could hardly separate one sound from another in the confusing mix, so instead I ignored it. I set my shoulders and stared straight ahead, marching on to war.

It was all too easy to dispatch the few darkspawn in the main streets. Apparently there was little reason, by some logic, for the creatures to stay where they felt they had already conquered. It was disheartening, though—what would the rest of Denerim look like? This city had been so lively, so full of people, and now…

Theron shot a Hurlock down, and I tried not to think on the destruction.

The Alienage was easy enough to reach. Loghain had been right when he had said, at some point, that it was the least defensible part of the city. The rickety structures and poorly-maintained walls were to blame for that, and I couldn’t help but feel that if only the elves were treated right, if only they were considered more than a burden, this would not be so.

Darrien, I knew, agreed with me. He grumbled as much when we got close, taking the lead easily. Theron let him. Darrien may not have been a natural leader, but this was his place, his home. There was something simply right about allowing him to lead here.

Shianni ran out to us as soon as she realized we were in the Alienage. “Thank the Maker!” she cried. “There’s darkspawn everywhere—we—”

Darrien took her arm and drew her into a quick hug. “Get everyone to safety,” he said as he pulled away. “We can handle this. We have actual soldiers and everything. No more of you need to die today.”

She nodded, not even trying to argue. “Okay. Okay, yes, I can do that.” She turned to the elves gathered around the vhenadahl and started ushering them into houses and buildings. “Everyone! Get to safety! Help the children and anyone who can’t walk, but keep yourselves safe!”

Theron nodded at Darrien, approving in his own quiet way of this choice. “I will call for troops to come to our aid,” he said, and pulled out a horn I hadn’t known he had. He blew into it, the sound nearly rocking me back off my feet. I didn’t know who’d be coming, but I figured it didn’t matter.

We rushed to meet the darkspawn. They were entering from the gate near the river, a whole teeming mass of them crossing the bridge into the Alienage. “If you know that spell for storms which Morrigan has used,” Theron said to me, “now would be the time to use it.”

Blizzard. Yeah, okay, I—didn’t know that one. I didn’t know it, but I had seen Morrigan cast it, and I had at least some knowledge of the elemental magics. I could do it, right? Neria nudged me. “Let’s cast together,” she suggested.

I nodded immediately, and I copied what I could glean from her as she cast the spell. Snow crystallized on the rickety bridge, a fierce wind whipping up from nowhere. I felt icy tendrils trickle through my veins, as though the storm itself resided in me. I heard a few loud splashes; some darkspawn had fallen to the water.

Neria and I shared a grin. Behind us, soldiers ran to help, and above us, Theron shot arrows from a platform. He looked fierce at this angle, and not a single soul dared question his orders, not even the human soldiers who seemed displeased to be defending an Alienage, of all places.

Archers joined him, and volleys rained down through the little blizzard to kill and injure those darkspawn caught in its midst. More splashes. The ice slid silently through me, snaking around my neck. I shivered.

“The ice?” Neria asked. I nodded. “Where is it?”

“My neck,” I said. Her eyes widened.

“We stop the spell on three,” she said, then, allowing no room for argument. That, combined with the chill, told me enough that I would not risk otherwise, and she counted. “One… two… three!”

The spell broke with a final roar of wind, knocking a couple genlocks down into the river and forcing one unfortunate Hurlock onto his neighbor’s blade. They did not pause longer than to get their bearings, though; as soon as they saw where we stood, the darkspawn charged once more. Neria roared at them, echoed by the soldiers standing around us, and they met in the middle.

The bridge provided a nice choke point, forcing the darkspawn to make thinner lines that they could come across. They were met by a large group of soldiers. I didn’t bother casting shields, as the soldiers frequently swapped out with those standing behind them, allowing us to maintain a fresh line of defense. Instead, I cast my paralyzing glyphs and any other spell to keep the darkspawn from attacking.

For every ten darkspawn we slaughtered, they felled one of our own. Frequently, these fallen were still alive, and could be saved if brought to medical attention (served by a few mages standing in wait for precisely such circumstances), but all too often, they were really and truly dead.

I told myself they were dying for a good cause. It was true, but still, the deaths pained me—especially when I saw pointed ears and vallaslin among them. Hadn’t the Dalish suffered enough? This should not be our war. This should not cost our lives.

But we—no, they. They had signed a treaty with the Grey Wardens. That’s who I was, a Grey Warden. Dalish, too, but a Grey Warden first. I should be proud they were honoring the treaty. I should be proud my people could see past the prejudice to help save Ferelden.

One Hurlock stood above the rest in his group. He had better armor and a better sword; his helmet was tall, almost a mockery of a crown, and he felt different, too. He felt bigger, almost. Or heavier? The sensation was difficult to explain, difficult even to understand, but I knew that he must be the general Riordan had spoken of. This was the one we should focus on, the one we needed most to kill.

Winter’s Grasp did little more than faze him for a half-second, and he parried blows from soldiers like it was a game and he was the world champion. Arrows ricocheted off an invisible shield, going every which way and injuring just as many of our own as darkspawn. An emissary, then.

I ran up to stand on the platform with Theron and searched for whichever darkspawn was casting spells. It was easy enough to find him—a genlock emissary, on the fringe of the battle, waving aloft a twisted mockery of a proper staff. Something green oozed over it, catching the light of his spells like tree sap.

I slammed my staff and sent lightning down to singe his cowl; another invisible shield absorbed the energy, but the genlock flinched. He stopped his casting, looking around for the source. I cast lightning again, again, again, each time watching it be absorbed and each time watching the creature flinch from the assault.

I shouted. His eyes found me. I jabbed my staff in his direction; he sent his in mine. The disgusting projected magic of his staff slammed full-force into me, dropping me to my knees even as my own staff’s magic crashed into his shield and broke it.

I hurled over the side of the platform. No one was below me to catch the sick, thank the gods, but I also missed what exactly happened next. I looked up as cheers racketed around the area and saw the general falling, his head rolling away. Darrien had killed him, judging by the pose and the blood on his blade; I searched out the emissary to find that he, too, had been killed. Littlefoot stood on the body, jaws dripping with the off-color ichor.

I smiled at him, and he barked. I didn’t hear it for the noise and the remaining battle with what few darkspawn had outlived their general, but I could see it. Castor had been right, I thought as Littlefoot wiggled his way back to me. The skeleton-style warpaint was fearsome, and I liked it very much. It looked all the more ferocious for the blood.

Kneeling on the platform’s edge, I collected myself as this part of the battle became more than manageable. I didn’t cast into the thick of it for fear of catching an ally; Theron did not shoot for similar reasons. He crouched beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you alright?”

I nodded. “It was just the magic, I think. Whatever magic a darkspawn can cast, it isn’t normal, and it doesn’t agree with me.”

He snorted at the observation, but accepted it. We waited for a beat longer, and when I could stand, we gathered our scattered teammates. We had secured the Alienage, and the soldiers here could defend it now. It was time to face the dragon.

 

Fort Drakon’s tallest tower was visible from nearly anywhere in the city, and we used it to guide ourselves. As we rushed through, pausing only to finish off darkspawn groups, the Archdemon flew overhead. It spewed its purple flames over the city, spreading fire and destruction beyond what the horde had already managed.

It let out a loud screech—it sounded like a challenge, like it knew we were there and it was daring us to come and face it. Darrien shouted back, but the creature did not see us. I thanked my lucky stars for that, knowing that the four of us alone could not hope to defeat it, not here on the streets of Denerim. Fort Drakon had ballistae and defensible towers. We needed to take the fight there.

As the Archdemon swooped past a tall building, someone dropped onto it. “Riordan,” I breathed. We all froze, watching him struggle against the Archdemon, watching it slam against buildings in a bid to shake him off.

It worked, in the end.

Riordan fell from the Archdemon’s back. He caught his blade in its leathery wing, but any dragon’s wings are fragile, and they could not hold his weight. The blade tore through the flesh, rendering the Archdemon incapable of true flight. Riordan fell to the ground. He was dead, and the Archdemon still lived.

“Fenedhis,” Theron cursed, and glanced at us. “We need to hurry.”

He didn’t need to say more, and he didn’t bother trying to. He started running to Fort Drakon, no longer pausing to kill any darkspawn he came across, and we followed. Stopping was not an option, not anymore. We had to get to Ford Drakon, to the others; we needed to help them defeat the Archdemon.

As we drew closer, we could see the destruction that both the darkspawn and Capella herself had brought. Bodies were strewn everywhere; if any were still alive, we did not stop to check. There were no darkspawn at the entrance. A few human soldiers stood guard. They nodded to us as we approached. “The lady Capella and hers are inside. The Warden Anya and hers came through not moments ago.”

Theron nodded. “Ma serannas,” he said. I don’t know if he realized he was speaking elvish, or if he had reverted because he did not feel the need to spare thought to speaking common. I heard him wish them luck, and he started inside.

The soldiers were obviously confused, but didn’t dare say anything. Right now, I suppose, they had decided it didn’t matter. Elf or human or dwarf, we were all fighting for the same thing. Prejudice had no place on a battlefield.

We leapt over piles of genlocks. When Theron stood indecisively at a branching of corridors, Darrien led the way. He had been here before, after all—perhaps not for long, but he’d been here. Theron didn’t stop him or question it, and we ran and ran.

Sandal stood by the stairs to the second floor, and I laughed. He smiled at us, completely at ease. “Enchantment?” he asked.

Theron made a face, but glanced at myself and Neria. “Sandal, do you have any lyrium potions?”

He pulled out seven bottles. I was given four, and I tucked them into my rucksack quickly. “Thank you, Sandal,” I said. He smiled and waved as we ran up the stairs.

“What an odd boy he is,” Neria murmured. No one answered her, and I doubt she expected anyone to. There were more important things, like the ogre at the end of the hall who stared at us like we were dinner.

Darrien pointed his greatsword forward and ran at it head-on, as if he intended to joust. Neria followed behind and Theron shot a few arrows over their heads, dissuading it from meeting them in the middle. I added fire to their weapons. The sudden light surprised the ogre and made it blink.

That’s what Darrien needed. He impaled the great creature on his sword, continuing to run until it was buried to the hilt. Then he knelt and Neria jumped up, using his back as leverage, to slice her own sword across its neck.

It swayed, arms flailing about aimlessly after its attackers, but did not find them. Soon, it lay dead at their feet. Darrien put one armored boot against its gut and pulled, dragging his sword back out. There was a disgusting squelching sound, and the dark blood pooled underneath its body, released now that the sword was not stopping it.

Darrien made a face. We moved on.

The room right before the rooftop doors was empty, and as such, we did not stop. We barely paused long enough to drag the heavy wooden slabs open enough that we could slip out.

The Archdemon, in all its ancient glory, roared to greet us. It blasted to a mixed group of soldiers, dispersing them. They didn’t all make it. I looked away, looked for the rest of our number.

By the northern ballista stood Capella. Her bow was slung across her back and she was pushing the ballista into position. Wynne was nearby, acting more as a field medic than anything else; she crouched over a wounded soldier, and I could see several others scattered around the little tower.

I could just make out Daylen and Morrigan standing at the other tower, but Morrigan wasn’t operating the ballista. She was casting instead. At the Archdemon’s feet stood everyone else, running in for attacks and rolling back out to avoid being crushed or scratched or bit or who knows what else.

“Neria, Darrien, go help them,” Theron said. They ran immediately. “Vir’era, help Capella. I’ll go to the other ballista.”

I didn’t hesitate to comply. Capella barely spared me a nod when I approached. “Ammunition’s in the boxes. You load, I’ll fire.” And then she pulled back, shouted something that sent Castor scrambling away from the Archdemon’s feet, and shot the ballista.

The Archdemon screamed. Whatever the ammo was—it looked like large bolts to me—it hurt. It didn’t seem to do much other than that, though, not from where I stood. I shoved a new bolt into place. Capella shouted her warning and fired. It screamed again, head twisting around to see where the attacks were coming from.

In the confusion, its tail snapped back and forth, catching several soldiers unawares. I watched one fly into the wall from the force and fall back down. He was dead. He couldn’t still be alive, not after that. It had taken so little… The Archdemon hadn’t even attacked intentionally! What would happen if it hit someone it was trying to catch? What would happen if it caught the Wardens below?

It was too strong. It could send grown men flying from the force of its tail alone; I did not want to think of what it could do to elves, thinner and shorter than humans, but bloody images rose to mind regardless. I was going to die here. That thing was going to kill me. It was—

“Vir’era!” I spun around. Capella stared at me, wide-eyed, hair falling from her ponytail. “Stay strong,” she commanded, and I started to breathe again. I don’t know when I stopped, but I gulped down lungfuls of air even as I shoved another bolt into place.

“We can do this,” Capella said. “We have to.”

Not the most reassuring sentiment, but I felt determination settle into my bones once more regardless. Capella shouted, waited for Darrien to get out of range, and shot the ballista again.

This time, the bolt hit the Archdemon in the ribcage. This time, the Archdemon saw it coming, and it saw us. It screamed and pulled its head back. “Mythal have mercy,” I whispered. “Run!”

Capella and I shoved away from the wall, away from the ballista. A large purple fireball seared directly to it, destroying the ballista. Shrapnel flew. We were knocked off our feet; I hit the stone and rolled a few times. The flames didn’t catch me, at least, though something in them clawed briefly at me like it wanted to pull me apart.

I pushed myself up and saw Capella doing the same. She made a face at the broken ballista and started to move to the other. It seemed, though, that the Archdemon had had enough of this little game. It screamed again, a louder, deeper scream than before, and darkspawn started to spill out of the woodwork like ants.

Capella changed course immediately. I saw her unsling her bow and start to fire on the darkspawn and took that as my cue to do the same. Slipping my staff from my back, I covered the ground in glyphs to catch oncoming darkspawn. Littlefoot ran into the fray, and I saw Neria join in.

Soldiers of all groups attacked in earnest. I enchanted whatever weapons my spell could reach without completely taxing me, adding a good deal of damage. Hurlocks and genlocks cried out in pain at the fiery blades.

There were too many of them, though, and while they were not difficult to kill, they were difficult to contain. Sooner than I would have hoped, I couldn’t cast glyphs fast enough, and they poured through their frozen companions with little regard. I moved closer to more accurately aim my spells and staff.

A hot blast behind me sent me tumbling down the steps that led to what had been the ballista. I dropped my staff as I rolled, covering my head with my arms to discourage major injury there.

I was nauseous for a moment—a moment that felt like ages—and couldn’t stand up immediately. I peered around to make sense of my immediate surroundings: darkspawn continuing to flood onto the roof, a never-ending stream; soldiers fighting fiercely around me; Littlefoot not five feet away, keeping a genlock from reaching me.

My staff was still intact, thank the gods, but it had rolled away, near a group of darkspawn grappling with angry dwarves.

I didn’t exactly have a backup, though, and there were few enough mages that I could not reasonably find one. Not in time to protect myself and contribute once again, which is what I most certainly needed to do. I pulled myself to my hands and knees. Everything and nothing hurt. I would be despairingly sore tomorrow. If I lived that long.

Storing that thought away to be dealt with later (or never), I crawled to my staff. I didn’t stand for fear of drawing attention and being attacked in that prone state. I shouldn’t have bothered, though; as soon as I reached my staff, I was attacked anyways.

“Warden! Behind you!” someone shouted, and I turned in time to see a shriek bounding up to me. It was bleeding already, the blood sliding down its distended arms and dripping down the blades it wielded.

I shot lightning, but it was barely fazed. I didn’t have time to stand. It shrieked, loud enough to rattle my bones, and I raised my staff to intercept its blades.

I succeeded, sort of.

At least, I didn’t die. I could have. I didn’t.

One blade caught my right shoulder. It sank through and nicked my collarbone on its way, but then it caught on my staff. The shriek was forced to pull that blade up or to force it further. The other blade, seconds behind its sibling, sliced my fingers. I screamed.

It shrieked right back, a competition in sound. I lost. The second blade was brought back up and slid along my fingers again, cutting them anew. Darkspawn blood leaked into the wounds, trailing down the blades and burning me like the Joining all over again. The shriek pushed the first blade with force I hadn’t known it capable of. Coupled with a third attack from the second blade, my staff broke.

I cried out again as more darkspawn blood poured into the wound on my shoulder. The shriek began to lift its blades for a final strike and was knocked unceremoniously to the side. Littlefoot.

My mabari, my beautiful, loyal mabari tore the creature’s neck out, killing it. I whimpered and looked at my hands. I could see the bones. I wanted to retch, but could not, would not let myself. I had to be composed, I told myself. I had to get back up and help. 

I closed my eyes and concentrated on healing. I felt my fingers grow new flesh and seal off the wounds. The darkspawn blood made it hard, slow. I refused to stop until my fingers were once again usable. I had barely the energy to dig for a lyrium potion, but once I drank it, I felt at least temporarily rejuvenated.

Enough to press my hands (fingers scarred and skin bright pink) against my shoulder, against the large wound that seemed to go on forever. I couldn’t fix it entirely. I wasn’t a healer by trade; I was barely anything by trade. But I could stop the bleeding and I could give myself enough leverage to continue fighting, so I did.

Littlefoot helped me to stand when I finished. I was dizzy for a half a second, but then the adrenaline kicked in again, and I set my mind to task. I had a job to do. I could not afford to stop now, and my friends could not afford it, either. I saw Neria deep in the throng of darkspawn; I knew it was her only because she was the smallest fighter.

The Archdemon stood in the middle of the battlefield. It was looking worse for wear; I wondered if I had been out longer than I thought. I saw several bolts sticking out of its side, leaking blood slowly. It screeched at anyone to come close and closed its mouth around one unfortunate soul.

Castor dashed in while it was distracted. I was too far to do anything but watch. One enormous, clawed foot lifted. Someone shouted. Castor turned. The foot came down, and Castor went down with it. Shouts again, and then Darrien was there, hacking at the foot on top of Castor. He cut something vital, the first such cut I had noticed, and steaming blood spurted across the ground.

The foot lifted—the whole Archdemon moved away from one small, angry elf. I could have laughed. (I didn’t.) I ran forward, determined to get to Castor’s side. Darrien could defend him well, I knew, but I was certain that, after being under an Archdemon’s fucking foot, Castor needed medical attention. Not mine, maybe, but I could—I could stop the bleeding.

I could drag him to Wynne, if nothing else.

Darrien almost swung his sword at me, but stopped himself in time. Castor was unconscious, but I saw his chest moving. He was breathing still, for now. He was alive for now. “Get him to Wynne!” Darrien shouted at me. In any other circumstance, I may have tried to banter with him, to ask what else he thought I was doing, but this was not the time.

I pushed my arms under Castor’s back and hooked them around him. He groaned. One of my arms pressed against a wet spot—blood, I thought, a wound—but I didn’t have the time to readjust. The Archdemon had its sights on Darrien and his enormous blade.

I pulled as fast as I possibly could, dragging Castor across the stones. Spots of blood formed every few feet. Whether it was mine or Castor’s, I wasn’t entirely sure. I hadn’t looked for other wounds after the shriek attacked me; I could very well be bleeding from several spots.

Wynne looked exhausted when I reached her, but she didn’t stop. She made worried noises, looking over Castor. I handed her a lyrium potion. She drank it gratefully, and then I left to join the fight again.

Not many were attacking the Archdemon directly now. Well, except Darrien and Loghain. Anya and Faren were helping to hold off the darkspawn at the other side of the roof. Castor was down. Neria was fighting darkspawn. Daylen and Morrigan were working spells—I couldn’t tell exactly where they were aiming. It looked like a mix of darkspawn and Archdemon. Capella and Theron were working the remaining ballista.

Until the Archdemon saw them and decided to take it out. They barely jumped out of the way in time. I ran towards the little explosion. I should not have.

The Archdemon wasn’t done with that tower. A small barrage of purple fireballs hit it, sending debris every which way. Stone crumbled and crashed all around. I ducked one piece only to be knocked over by an even larger one. My shoulder ripped back open. The skin I’d managed to weave over the wound was too fragile for battle. I groaned, vision blacking out for a time.

When I gathered my consciousness back to me next, it looked like several smoke bombs had gone off, coating the entire roof. I doubted it had been the work of the explosions that had taken out the second ballista. The sound of battle continued in deafening cacophony, but thanks to the cloud, I couldn’t tell what was happening at the far edges of the rooftop. I couldn’t even see a great majority of my comrades.

Through the grimy dust, I could just make out Darrien shoving his sword fiercely into the Archdemon’s side. It screamed, and kicked him away, but he held onto his sword, and it went with him. Blood spilled out in its wake. The Archdemon stumbled and started to fall. Darrien hit stone and skidded away.

Someone needed to kill it. I couldn’t see my other friends, the other Grey Wardens. I couldn’t even see Loghain. I pushed off the stone holding me down and started to stumble to my feet. If no one else did…

In the periphery of my vision, just barely masked by the smoke, Theron appeared, Dar’Misu held aloft. He shouted, a loud and angry shout, and charged at the Archdemon. It didn’t notice him or didn’t care; I don’t know which. It didn’t attack. Theron drew Dar’Misu along its neck, letting the blood collect on his boots as he walked to its head.

He shoved the blade down, into its skull, and killed the beast. A light, brighter than the sun but cold like the Fade, erupted from them, becoming a shining pillar in the sky, and then it exploded. I was knocked back onto the ground. My head hit the stone a bit too hard, and I lost consciousness once again.


	22. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i added a [colored version](http://dinosaurdragon.tumblr.com/post/131778573176/so-as-promised-last-week-i-now-present-to-you) of the dwarves to my tumblr. it's not perfect, but whatever, lmfao.
> 
> that said, enjoy the final chapter/epilogue.

The celebrations for our victory lasted for two weeks. I spent most of the first week recovering. We all did, actually. Castor had a few broken ribs from being crushed underfoot, but would be fine; Darrien had a broken arm from holding so tightly to his sword, but would be fine; Anya had a badly burned foot, but would be fine; the list went on.

I had no broken bones, but it was a near thing, I was told. My collarbone had been fractured when the shriek attacked me. I did have several new scars on my fingers and an enormous one over my shoulder and down my chest. Apparently, while my mid-battle healing had saved my life, my inexperience with it and the darkspawn blood that had caught in the midst ensured I would have scars. I didn’t mind, really. I already had a couple; what was a few more? Certainly, if I maintained the course I had set, I would see yet more scars in the future.

Theron was being hailed loudly and joyously as the Hero of Ferelden, as it was, after all, Theron who actually killed the Archdemon. He seemed entirely uncomfortable with the attention and avoided crowds whenever he could. He spent a lot of time in his room with Zevran, who was more than pleased to have his lover back safe and sound.

Most of the Wardens were confused about just how Theron had lived. Daylen told them, one by one, what had happened. I don’t know if he told anyone the full story, but I knew he wasn’t going to stay long. Each day he dawdled was another day Morrigan had to put between them, and he admitted to as much when I asked. “I’m going to find her,” he told me, in no uncertain terms. “I can’t just let her do this on her own, and I’m not needed here anymore, anyways. I did my part. If they ask me to stay as a Grey Warden, I’ll refuse. I’m done. I just want to find Morrigan.”

I couldn’t fault him for it. Anya and Faren were similarly done with things. In Anya’s words, they just wanted to go home. Home, I came to understand, was Orzammar. Orzammar, with Bhelen and Rica. I found their entire familial relationship tangle rather funny, to be honest. They were dating and so were their younger siblings—what a small world.

Capella officially left the Grey Wardens (or, as officially as one could when there were no high-ranked Wardens around and you were forever tainted with the Blight). She was set to marry Alistair and become queen within a month. She seemed genuinely happy about this; that moonlight smile appeared anytime Alistair was in the room. Her joy was infectious.

The day of the official ceremony was bright and cloudless. It felt a little too symbolically cheerful to me, but I figured that we had, in fact, all made it. Maybe a little symbolic cheerfulness from nature was warranted. Who was I to argue with nature?

In addition to naming Theron the Hero of Ferelden, Alistair also pronounced the rest of us—Loghain excluded—as Champions of Ferelden. “It doesn’t mean much,” he said, later, “but it does mean that if you ever need my help, people won’t really question it. Also, you’re supposed to be welcome anywhere in Ferelden. I can’t do much about that, though.”

I was a Champion twice over, then. Most of us were, actually. We were the Champions of Redcliffe and Ferelden. I wasn’t sure I needed to keep this particular trend up. It seemed like an awful lot of work.

Though, perhaps I would. Not personally, but if I did go to Kirkwall, if I managed to befriend Hawke… Well, then I’d at least know yet another Champion. (For someone who had such trouble speaking with people, my life was becoming quite full of illustrious characters.)

Theron asked Alistair, for his boon, to give land to the Dalish. Alistair wasn’t even surprised; I don’t think anyone who knew Theron was. I doubted Theron would go there, would stay there (I think he planned to go wherever and do whatever along with Zevran), but he was very much connected to the People. It was his own way, I thought, of honoring them.

Ashalle, the woman who had raised Theron, was delighted with this. She was just one of many who had shown and been welcomed into the throne room on behalf of the Grey Wardens. Fergus Cousland was there, to the great delight of Castor and Capella, who had thought him dead. From what I gleaned during overheard snippets of conversation, he was quite amused to be the brother of the soon-to-be queen.

Cyrion came for Darrien. Gorim invited Anya to come back to Orzammar on behalf of her brother, saying they’d both been reinstated as Aeducans. Rica was there, too, for Faren as well as in the capacity of an Ambassador. Even First Enchanter Irving had shown up, giving his heartfelt congratulations to both Neria and Daylen.

I had no one. Just Littlefoot. It made it easier for me to hide away from the party and the mingling, lingering people. No one was looking for the odd Dalish mage. I could catch my breath in unused corners, far from prying eyes. I missed my staff already. The pieces had been found and returned to me, but it was no longer usable. Not even the greatest craftsmen could fix it, I was told.

I tried to convince myself that it was a good thing. It was a very basic staff. Just ironbark, with no ornamentation and no blade. I could get a better one now. I just didn’t want to. Not yet. Not until things were quieter.

Littlefoot sat with me in the dark corners of the room. He pressed against my legs when I felt like I would fall and licked my fingers when I started to dissociate. It was nice. It was grounding. Without him, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. Probably panic.

In the days that followed, Darrien convinced Alistair to name Shianni as the first official Bann of the Denerim Alienage. He also added elven advisors to his court. Anora was allowed to inherit her father’s teyrnir. She seemed to find it only right. I couldn’t tell just how she felt towards Alistair yet. I didn’t know if she would cause problems later. I could only hope that Capella, at least, would be prepared.

I was awarded with a staff (or maybe rewarded with it?) for my help during the Blight. I don't know that Alistair forgave me yet, but he smiled when he handed it to me, and that was enough. He was still my friend, angry or not, and I could be satisfied with that.

The staff was beautiful. Its shaft was made of solid obsidian, black as night and smooth as can be. A silverite blade was attached to the base, serpentine and severe. I nearly cut myself when I first touched it. The focus, though, the thing which made that staff truly unique, was at the top. It was here that I knew, with no room for doubt, that the staff had been made for me specifically. Not purchased from a vendor but commissioned with me in mind. At the top, confined in a cage of protective glass, was a small rock of pure blue lyrium. The glass kept it safe, kept me safe, but the lyrium was there nonetheless, glowing and gorgeous. Curled around the glass cage and its lyrium treasure was a High Dragon carved from Stormheart. She glittered in the lyrium's glow, seeming ready to take flight at the slightest provocation. Silently, I named her Maleficent, for Before, for the dragon, for the green Stormheart. It seemed to fit. Her tail wound down around the obsidian of the staff a few inches, and the whole of it captivated me.

I tried not to wonder if we should help Daylen to find Morrigan, if anyone should be sent to Haven to slay the dragon who still resided there. People higher than me could decide that. I had my own things to worry about. The Architect was the most pertinent at the moment, but Kirkwall came in close second. How would I get there? What would I find once I arrived? Would I even manage to find Hawke? Not to mention Anders…

But those were worries for later. For now, we had won and lived; the Blight was over.

 

_Vir'era,_

_I hope you're alright. I haven't heard much here, but I heard only one Grey Warden died, so I'm hoping it's not you. Plus they say the one who stopped it's still alive and that he's Dalish. Is that you? No one's been able to tell me his name. All I really know is that the Blight is over and we have a new king. I'm the only one who knows about the new queen bit, though. Honnleath's been a bit disconnected from any reliable news sources for a while._

_Sorry for the short letter. I don't have time for more right now. We're rebuilding what we can now that the darkspawn aren't really so much of a threat anymore. It's busy. Plus, you know, celebrations._

_Write back when you can. Or if you're dead, then one of your friends better write me and say so._

_Mia Rutherford, 9:30 Dragon_

_Mia,_

_I'm alive. Thank you for worrying. I'm not the one who killed the Archdemon; that was Theron Mahariel, who is indeed Dalish. We're from the same clan. The Warden who died was a man by the name of Riordan, who had come from Orlais to help. He did. Without him, I don't know that we'd have managed to stop it all so easily. (Not that it was easy, but that it was easier for his presence.)_

_I have a few new scars now. My staff was broken during the battle, too. But I'm alive. That's what really matters, isn't it? Alistair's been very generous in repaying us for our aid. He's even given land to the Dalish! One of the women from our clan, Ashalle, has said she plans to live there. She could own a house now. We've never lived in houses. It's all very exciting, actually. I'd like to visit her someday._

_But for now, there's still a lot to do. Capella's going to be married to Alistair within the month, and she told us all that she expects us present at her wedding and coronation. I couldn't possibly refuse. Alistair even asked me to be one of the groomsmen! I'm sure it's an even greater honor for the fact that he is the king, but I'm simply pleased to be there for my friends._

_Theron is also engaged. Or so I believe, at least. He said that Zevran as much as proposed, but I don't know if that means they are actually engaged and plan to marry or if it was just some grandiose promise. Zevran is prone to those. He's quite theatrical._

_Anya and Faren, the dwarven princess and her beau, will be returning to Orzammar, I've been told. Maybe it's just temporary. Maybe it's permanent. Either way, I know their fellows hold them in high esteem now, even though they had once been looked down on for... well, a variety of reasons, really. That's not important._

_I will be staying in Ferelden. The Grey Wardens have been given the Arling of Amaranthine to rebuild, and I plan to go there. I don't know when I'll be there, but I'll let you know. For now, if you send me letters, I will be able to receive them at Denerim's royal palace._

_I hope the efforts in Honnleath go well._

_Best wishes,_

_Vir'era Sabrae, 9:30 Dragon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one final thank you to everyone who's read this story, a bonus thank you to those who have left kudos, and the warmest hugs to those who have left comments for me. this is not the end of the road, but it is the end of the beginning.
> 
> i will not be uploading the true second story ('a book written in scrawled hand,' which is already uploaded, is more of a side bonus than a true sequel) until about one month from now. i promise not to make you all wait longer than black friday, though i'd like to warn you that until i have more chapters for 'the warden-commander,' updates may not be weekly. i hope this won't be the case, but i'd rather let you know in advance of the possibility than surprise you with it if it becomes reality.
> 
> you've all been very wonderful so far. dareth shiral, and i will see you in one month.


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